Naughty Feather
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Author's Note: This is a tandem tickle story, written by myself and another TMF writer I think is very talented, Laughter n Love. I wrote part one and he wrote part two. It's the same story, but from each of the character's perspectives.
As a rule, I don't write things that are non-consent -- that's just where I'm coming from personally. This story started out as a private tale, never meant for posting. But Laughter n Love's part was so great, I knew the story had to be posted, so folks could read his work, if nothing else.
I hope you all enjoy it and I welcome feedback at [email protected]
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A WINTER’S TALE
by Naughty Feather
I moved to this city five weeks before Christmas. The cold had already woven itself through the air; the first snow had already fallen. The festive decorations for the approaching holidays only served to remind me that I had moved far away from family and friends and now didn’t know a soul.
There was a huge pub a few blocks away from my apartment. It was one of those old places you enter by going down a flight of steps. Every evening, I would pass by and look down through the window, drawn in by the warm, golden light glowing from the place, drawn in by the sounds of people gathered together and happy.
The bar was the most striking feature of the pub, an old-fashioned affair of wood and brass, with a thick railing running all the way around it. But every time I looked through the window, I saw a sight more striking that the bar itself.
I saw you.
I watched a thousand tiny reflections of your image waver and dance around in the glasses lining the back of the bar. You did more than just tend the bar; you tended to everyone who walked in, giving them a warm smile along with their drink. You created the atmosphere that everyone who walked in felt like an old friend. Everyone gravitated towards you; you were the real source of light and warmth in that place.
When I heard you laugh, the sound was intoxicating to me.
I longed to meet you, but I didn’t know how. My shyness paralyzed me whenever I thought of starting up a conversation. And, even if I had the nerve, I would only get the same easy smile you gladly portioned out to everyone. I wanted more than camaraderie, I wanted connection. I wanted you to know that I was different from any other woman. I wanted you to know that I could make you feel things no one else could.
A Christmas party a few days later provided the opportunity I had been looking for. People filled the pub until it was a humming beehive of activity. I went unnoticed in the corner among the drinking and revelry of the other patrons. You poured drink after drink behind the bar like a pro, never missing an order, never faltering in your banter with the customers. Since you were working you, of course, kept sober. As I well knew from several nights of watching you, you only drank bottles of spring water. In the happy chaos of the party, you couldn’t be blamed for having your back turned, for not noticing my hand pass briefly over the bottle as I poured another liquid in.
I saw you wipe your sleeve across your forehead, wicking away the perspiration. I saw you reach for the bottle without looking, without noticing, and drink everything down in one long swig.
I smiled.
A few minutes later, I saw you leave the pub through the back door, carrying a crate of empty bottles into the alley. I was standing at the other end, disguised by shadows and midnight. You didn’t see me. I had my eye firmly fixed on you, though, knowing you had to drop soon.
You staggered as you set the crate of bottles down and blinked heavily. Shaking your head to clear it of the sudden fog, you tried to reach for the door handle, but your hand missed it. You stumbled against the wall and slumped down to the icy ground. Your head lolled back and you closed your eyes.
I watched you wake. You didn’t know I was there, of course. I can be quiet as a mouse when I want to. Even my breaths were silent sips of air.
You regained consciousness slowly, as expected. I heard you mutter in confusion and disbelief as you began to realize that you were in an unfamiliar room. There were bare brick walls on all sides and darkness; the only light was hanging far over your head. I heard your startled exclamations as you realized you were strapped on your back to a table. The restraints were thick leather, the table solid oak.
Silence was not my only virtue; I was also good at waiting. I sat patiently in a chair outside of your range of vision as you called for help, then screamed curses, then finally fell silent yourself. When your head dropped back in silent resignation, I knew it was time to begin.
I pushed the chair back to stand up and the legs scraped the stone floor underneath. The sound rang out like a gunshot in the silent room and I saw your entire body vibrate in sudden alertness. You craned your head and called out.
I stood still and was silent.
It was five whole minutes, after you decided the sound was only a fluke and just prayed it wasn’t a rat, before I started to walk towards you. Your head whipped around at the sound of my clicking heels and I saw your nostrils flare with fear.
I stood right next to the table’s edge, right outside the circle of light that illuminated you. I could smell the salty tang of your fear at not being able to see me.
“You won’t be hurt,” I assured. “I don’t want your pain…I want your laughter.”
I have always been a woman to get right to the point.
In the next moment, you felt a sensation in the palm of your right hand. You looked up as much as your bonds would allow. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of red. You realized that the red was the slender tip of a feather and I was tickling your outstretched palm.
The palms of hands can be such tender places. I made sure to tie you with your hands spread open, so I could have the distinct pleasure of stroking them with the feather. I lost myself in making swirling patterns in your palms and dipping the plume between your fingers.
I moved down your arms and dabbled in the smooth depressions that were the hollows of your elbows. Suddenly, you felt the torment cease as the feather lifted from your skin.
Then my breath was next to your ear, very close, very warm. “Ticklish?” I asked, taunting.
The stream of my breath was followed by the feather as I traced the rims of both your ears with the tip. You thrashed and I held your head still in a solid grip.
I put the feather aside. Drawn in by the tempting sight of your neck, I lightly danced my fingernails down your throat. The red feather was replaced with ten red nails, skating across the surface of your neck.
Teasing your neck, I admit, was merely misdirection on my part. I wanted you so distracted by that tickle torment that you would never suspect your delicious underarms were going to be my next target.
You were completely unprepared as I pounced, scrabbling my nails around under your arms, delighting in your screams of ticklish laughter. I wanted to hear you laugh harder – I goosed the long, rope-like muscles running down the front of your armpits. I reached over with both thumbs and tickled your raised nipples with tormenting circles as my other fingers continued to tickle under your arms.
I gave you two minutes of rest. You were too winded to speak. The sound of your labored breathing filled the room like steam engine of an ancient train.
I watched as the natural color returned to your face. I saw that you had just about regained enough energy to beg me to let you go. I wasn’t interested in hearing you beg yet. I wanted to hear more laughter.
I inserted one long fingernail into the tender cup of your navel and stirred it around as you tried to buck off of the table. I moved my finger fast and then slowly, then back to fast again. Every move I made seemed to increase your ticklishness.
I wondered if your entire torso was ticklish.
I grabbed your ribs in both of my hands and began to strongly massage them. As I saw you splutter with uncontrollable laughter, I decided it was time for some verbal play.
“Is that your pleasure, sir? You like it on your ribs? I’m going to squeeze these juicy ribs for all they’re worth and give you a long, rollicking rib tickle!”
I slid my fingers between the bones and tickled each rib one at a time, over and over. I heard and felt you become increasingly frantic – you thought the torture on your sides would never end.
I wanted to keep you off balance. I knew tickling unexpected spots on your body would keep you frenzied and hyper-ticklish. I left your ribs and reached down.
“Most men,” I purred, “are extremely ticklish here. I understand it can be excruciating. Let me know.”
I grabbed your hipbones, right above the sides of the pelvis and started to squeeze, tickling at a rapid pace. I tickled furiously for several minutes and then stopped. I resumed tickling and then stopped. The pauses were just as important as the music of your laughter. Now, I did want to hear you beg.
Slicked with sweat and tormented with forced hysteria, your pride was gone. You begged.
Heedless of your desperate pleas (although I enjoyed hearing them), I moved down towards your feet. You still couldn’t see anything of me except shadows, but you knew where I was going. You started to scream in earnest.
You promised me things; things you didn’t have and could never hope to have – money, jewels, cars, mansions. You promised me anything I wanted in the entire world and almost promised me your very soul if I would only leave your feet alone.
I smiled. “I already have what I want.”
I bent down close to the twin curves of your high, taut arches. You felt my breath on your soles and even that tickled you.
“Delicious,” I said and began to lick. Starting at your left heel, I ran my tongue slowly up the length of your foot and over your toes. I followed suit on the other foot.
My fingers started to itch with the anticipation. They wanted to tickle you to the point of madness. I let my fingertips scamper all over your feet. I tweaked your toes and pinched your smooth heels. I firmly stroked your arches up and down relentlessly, savoring your helpless laughter.
Between screams, you begged me for “No more!” Your piteous cries for mercy only made me tickle you harder; I was without any mercy. I wanted all the laughter you had inside wrung out of you like water from a wet cloth. I was determined to get every drop.
It was impossible to resist playing with your perfect little toes. I wiggled my forefinger between them, one by one, my fingernails scratching the tender and ticklish skin connecting them.
“Kootchie, kootchie,” I cooed, with a mixture of playfulness and sadism. “You like it between your toes, don’t you? You like that a lot! Well, I’ll just keep doing it, if that’s your favorite spot.”
I tickled until your soles and toes were flushed red. Both feet looked properly tormented. Any woman of mercy would have stopped there, would have let you go. But as I previously said, of all of my virtues, mercy is a quality I simply lack.
I wrapped one arm around your bound ankles and pulled both of your big toes back firmly with my strong fingers. The bright, red nails of the other hand hovered over your vulnerable soles like a swarm of bees ready to strike.
“This is it, my love, the grand finale. Don’t say I never gave you anything for the holidays.”
I attacked your soles in a savage tickle assault and listened with satisfaction as the sounds of your hilarious screams bounced off of the walls.
Afterwards, limp, you lay on the table near a state of unconsciousness. I helped you slip under the rest of the way by placing a chemical-soaked cloth over your nose and mouth. My crimson fingernails were the last things you saw.
I propped you up in the alley behind the pub and watched as you came to, blinking into the morning sun and astonished that it was now day and not night.
Your aching body and the chafe marks on your wrists, just slightly red, told you what happened hadn’t been a dream. You looked down at your shirtfront and saw a note pinned to the material with a jaunty, red-and-white, candy cane pin. Trembling, you opened it.
“Wishing you much holiday ‘merriment’ and ‘cheer’ – until the next time we meet.”
I watched from a safe distance across the street as you rose to unsteady feet and staggered back into your restaurant.
You wouldn’t call the police. I knew that. Was it assault? Maybe. But what would you say, how could you explain? And, you didn’t even see my face.
You wouldn’t leave; you wouldn’t sell your place and pack up your whole life, trying to escape a mad tickler who’d held you for the night. I knew that too. Your life was here, surrounded by that circle of light and warmth and friends. You wouldn’t abandon the cozy cocoon of the pub because of one bizarre incident.
Most of all, I knew the other reason, the real reason, you wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t see me all the time we were together, but I could see you. I saw how much you really enjoyed being tickled, deep down. You liked the madness and the frenzy. You liked being made to laugh and made to surrender.
Secretly, you waited for “next time”.
So did I.
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A WINTER'S TALE
by Laughter n Love
People think they know me, but they don't know the real me.
Some come in once and never return. I make them feel welcome for the short time they spend with me. Some come in whenever they are lonely or in need of a friend. I'm there for them without question, ready to brighten their night with good cheer or offer them a sympathetic ear. Some come in nightly, as if this were their real home and not just a place they come to escape from the realities that are their lives. I treat them like family, but unlike family, I never judge, scorn, or lecture. I accept them, with all their flaws, with all their pain. I always have a smile and a drink and a joke waiting for them, and they love me for it.
But that's not all that I'm about.
Sure, I derive some pleasure out of being there for all these people, these souls in need of warmth and compassion. But that's part of the job. If you can't offer a piece of yourself to people, you don't become a bartender, simple as that.
But what about my needs? What about the things in life that bother me? Who is there to listen to me? Who is there to bring ease to my soul?
I try not to dwell on these things, and thankfully, I'm usually too busy at work to have time to ponder them. It's when my shift is over and I return home to my empty apartment, alone, that my demons come to visit with me. It's funny that no one ever questions why I volunteer to work double shifts all the time, despite the fact that I own the place.
The night of my abduction was no different than any other as I can remember. There was a corporate Christmas party being held at the pub, the kind where the patrons are more dressed up and festive than my usual crowd, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. It was the third Christmas party we'd hosted that week, and too many new faces among the crowds for me to remember anyone suspicious. I remember being extremely busy that night, and working up a sweat, and exchanging jokes with a number of faceless people, but nothing to be on my guard about. It wasn't until a lull in the action where I went to take out some trash and restock the bar that things got weird.
I didn't feel good. In fact, I felt like I was going to pass out. As I reached for the door in the alley, the last thing I remember was thinking, "I'm going to pass out." And that's exactly what I must have done.
When I awoke, my brain felt like it was mired in cotton. Nothing seemed right or made sense. I wasn't in the back alley outside the bar, or anyplace else I recognized for that matter. It was dark, and cold, and I felt stiff and sore. Eventually the cobwebs in my head started to clear, and I was able to blink away the grogginess of my unnatural sleep.
Unfortunately, I learned little more by being alert, althought the realizations of my situation did start to become clear to me one by one. The first was that I was a prisoner of some kind; thick leather straps at my wrists and ankles held me flat on my back to a hard surface, most likely a solid table of sorts. My body was stretched tightly at both ends, with even my fingers being splayed out and individually strapped to the wood. A quick struggle convinced me I wasn't going anywhere.
I next realized that I was not naked, although I was very nearly so. Of my clothing, only my boxer shorts had been left to me. There was no sign of the rest of my clothes.
The room about me offer no clues of any kind. It was small, and almost completely shrouded in darkness. Of my surroundings, I could make out nothing except the faint outline of brick walls on either side. The only piece of furniture or decoration of any kind appeared to be the table on which I lay. A weak light from overhead was the sole source of illumination in the room, and it was angled directly into my eyes. I could see no door, no window, nor any evidence explaining what I might be doing here. I began to panic.
"Help!" I cried. "Can anybody hear me?!" I waited, but there was no answer in return. I called again and again, but each time only silence answered my cries. I struggled again, more furiously this time, but as before, I remained tightly strapped to the table, with aching muscles and a heart full of despair as my only reward. I began to get angry, enraged by my helplessness and the futility of my situation. My cries for help were replaced by violent curses towards the person or persons responsible for this. I promised to do unspeakable things to them, to their families, to anyone they cared for. I shouted in vain, accomplishing nothing but trying my best to keep from giving in to the fear I felt. Finally, when I had yelled myself hoarse, I sighed deeply and then lay quiet. There was nothing for me to do but wait.
Suddenly a noise! I nearly had a heart attack at the sound, at how close by my head it had seemed. It came from within the room, but from just outside of my field of vision. I strained my neck to see what had caused it, to find the source, but the straps holding me down prevented me from turning far enough. My heart thudded wildly in my chest. Was there something in the room with me? Was there someone else here?
I called out, timidly at first. "Hello? Is anyone there?" I was torn between getting an answer and NOT getting an answer. The not knowing was killing me. "Hello?" I called, a bit louder.
As before, there was no answer in return. I began to think I had imagined the noise, that my tortured brain had conjured it out of thin air, in the same way that sometimes things seem to move in the darkness when you know they couldn't possibly have moved. The beating in my heart began to slow, but my senses remaind on high alert.
And then I heard footsteps walking towards me! High heels. The footsteps of a woman, close by. She must have been almost directly behind me all along. I fought to see her face, but she stopped by the table, just outside the light. I was both furious and terrified.
"You won't be hurt," the woman said in a voice devoid of emotion. “I don’t want your pain…I want your laughter.”
I started to protest, to demand my release, when I felt something tickling at the palm of my right hand. I looked up and was horrified to see out of the corner of my eye the tip of a red feather dancing along my immobile hand. I tried to clench it shut, to ward off the irritating sensations, but the straps along my fingers prevented such an action. The muscles in my fingers and arm began to twitch involuntarily. I felt the red feather move to my other hand and repeat the tickling. Full fledged panic filled my heart. Was this what she had meant by wanting my laughter? Was she going to tickle me?
The feather moved down my arms in answer to my unasked question. I fought to keep from laughing out loud. I've always been highly ticklish, and what she was doing to me was borderline torture. I did not want to show this faceless woman she was getting to me, however, lest she decide to torment me further. I choked back the giggles.
As suddenly as it started, the tickling of my elbows ceased. I breathed a shallow sigh of relief, glad that was over. Perhaps she'd be discouraged at my lack of response and give up this mad idea.
Her voice was in my ear, breathy. “Ticklish?” she asked, and I paled at the playfulness in her voice as I suddenly realized my torture had only just begun. I felt the feather teasing the edges of my ears, and I whipped my head from side to side to avoid it. She grabbed my head in a surprisingly strong grip and patiently tickled my inner ears with the feather. The urge to scream came upon me, but I fought it off. I could take it...I could take it....
Suddenly she was tickling my neck with ten long, red fingernails. I burst out laughing, as this was more 'ticklish' than the maddening torture of my ears. I struggled as much as my bonds would allow, trying to give her nothing to work with by pulling my chin down in a protective manner, but she was persistent, and always found the openings I was forced to leave her. The giggles came out of my mouth in a steady stream now as I fought, and lost, the battle to keep her away from my sensitive neck.
The reaction of my body to the suddenness of her fingernails in my underarms was quicker than the recognition in my brain. My body lurched off the table even as I screamed in ticklish surprise. There had been no warning, no hint that this was coming. Thrashing against the table was the only response I could muster against this most wicked of tortures. Lowering my arms or twisting out of reach were not options to me. Even my attempts at bravery were weakening, as the cackling in my throat echoed forth unabated. Her fingertips tortured me rapidly, without pause or refrain. I felt her nails skittering everywhere, over my chest and around my nipples, and my body broke out in head to toe gooseflesh. Yet even as I suffered, I felt my body betraying me, as my nipples hardened in delight, and my manhood twitched awake.
The tickling stopped, and I fought to regain the breath she had stolen from me. I felt myself covered in a thin layer of sweat, evidence of a hopeless struggle for freedom I was forced to endure. I would have pleaded for mercy if I could do more than suck in great gulps of air, as somehow I knew this hell was no yet over, but I felt too weak to speak yet. I could only hope that she would feel pity and end this cruel game.
A wiggilng fingernail in the center of my navel let me know that my respite was over. I bucked my hips, desperate to dislodge that single fingernail, as I could not stand to have it in my belly button for even a second longer. But like an expert bullrider, she anticipated my every movement, and the nail remained firmly in place, tickling me faster or slower as she pleased. I was once again drowning in a sea of forced laughter, hoping against hope that that single fingernail in my navel would not drive me insanse as I feared it would. It seemed an odd way to lose one's sanity, but yet I feared that was my fate.
As if I had not suffered enough, I felt her hands kneading my ribs on both sides in a squeezing sort of tickle. This was no better than the torture of my navel, as my ribs were insanely ticklish. To make matters worse, she began to verbally taunt me.
“Is that your pleasure, sir? You like it on your ribs? I’m going to squeeze these juicy ribs for all they’re worth and give you a long, rollicking rib tickle!”
I barely heard the mocking tone of her voice, as I was lost in my own misery. It felt like she tickled my ribs forever, and there was no defense available to me to ward it off. My laughter became harder and more frenzied. The sweat on my body thickened. The desperation in my bucking and thrashing became more pronounced. And the swelling of my manhood increased to the point of near pain.
She was obvoiusly enjoying my misery. “Most men,” she purred, “are extremely ticklish here. I understand it can be excruciating. Let me know.” I felt her attack my hips bones.
I screeched in agony as her fingers dug into these inexplicably ticklish places. My hips pounded uselessly against the table as I fought to avoid her fingertips. If it were possible, the torturous tickling seemed to be getting worse with each new target she selected. I couldn't stand this fresh Hell. I knew I'd certainly blow a fuse if she didn't stop.
And she did, and for a moment I was not being tickled at all. I gulped in fresh air, ready to plead for mercy when it began again, again on my hips. As before, I fought in vain for freedom and to remain sane. And just when I felt at the point of no return, she stopped again. And then started again.
How many times she toyed with me in the manner I cannot remember. What I know is I measured time by how long it took for me to feel my sanity threatened with every digging probe of her strong fingertips. She tortured me for to the point where the simplest of squeezes to my pelvic area were enough to have me flopping about on the verge of madness.
And then she stopped, and as soon as I realized that my hips would not again be attacked, I launched into begging. I no longer cared about saving face against this woman. I only cared about not being tickled anymore. I pleaded with her. I reasoned with her. I tried to appeal to her sense of mercy. She responded by walking towards my feet.
At the sight of this, my pleading rose to desperate levels. I babbled incoherently, saying anything I could think of to keep her away from my feet. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for her or given to her if she would only not do this inhuman thing.
I could almost hear the smile in her voice as she replied, “I already have what I want.”
I've never been so frightened in all my life.
I heard her mutter the word, “Delicious”, even as I felt her tongue running up my left foot. My body convulsed like I was undergoing shock therapy. She repeated the torture along the bottom of my right foot, and I responded by lurching in my bonds. My feet were simply far too ticklish for this kind of torment.
And then it got worse.
The assault of ten red nails, for all I know polished and sharpened for the sole purpose of tickling my helpless feet, descended upon my defenseless soles. I screamed bloody murder and cackled like a madman, twitching and thrashing and struggling with what little energy I still had in me. And yet the torture of my feet continued. How I managed to beg for her to stop amid my insane laughter I'll never know, but there was no mercy to be had for me. She tickled every inch of my feet, from my captive heels to my curling and protesting toes. She seemed to find great pleasure in attacking my toes. I know I heard her taunting me further about them, but I was too far gone to make anything out. My mind was all consumed with the Hell my feet were undergoing. To make matters worse, I found myself almost savagely turned on by this relentless torture, as if a lust to be mercilessly tickled like this had lay dormant inside me all along, and was only now being allowed to awaken. I felt I would soon either pass out or shoot my load. Something had to give. I felt her arm wrap around my ankles, felt her pulling my straining toes back, felt a flurry of nails scraping the flesh of my feet. The last thing I remember was screaming.
The events that followed are a jumble to me. I know the tickling stopped at some point, but I was not aware of it. I do remember a rag being pulled over my face, and then nothing.
I awoke in the alley behind the pub, trying to get my bearings in what I was surprised to find was the sun of the early morning. I was alone and cold, but found I was once again dressed. In fact, a note had been pinned to my shirt.
“Wishing you much holiday ‘merriment’ and ‘cheer’ – until the next time we meet.”
I look around anxiously, trying to see if my attacker were still in my presence, but I was most definitely alone. Sore and exhausted, I rose timidly to my feet and headed back into the pub. My mind was a whirlwind.
I kept the note with me, thinking to myself that I might one day be able to identify the owner by the handwriting, but that wasn't the only reason. The real reason I kept it was because I like to reread it when I was alone. Secretly, I liked the idea that I might one day be abducted like that again, which is why I never did call the police or even speak of the events to anyone. Because as bizarre and helacious as the experience was, I found myself thinking of it often, and the sexual state of mind it put me could not be denied. Would my torturer make good on her promise? There was only one way to find out...go back to work and wait for her to strike again. Which is exactly what I did, except now my dreary days were full of wonder and anticipated and the excitement of wondering, “will it happen again?”
As a rule, I don't write things that are non-consent -- that's just where I'm coming from personally. This story started out as a private tale, never meant for posting. But Laughter n Love's part was so great, I knew the story had to be posted, so folks could read his work, if nothing else.
I hope you all enjoy it and I welcome feedback at [email protected]
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A WINTER’S TALE
by Naughty Feather
I moved to this city five weeks before Christmas. The cold had already woven itself through the air; the first snow had already fallen. The festive decorations for the approaching holidays only served to remind me that I had moved far away from family and friends and now didn’t know a soul.
There was a huge pub a few blocks away from my apartment. It was one of those old places you enter by going down a flight of steps. Every evening, I would pass by and look down through the window, drawn in by the warm, golden light glowing from the place, drawn in by the sounds of people gathered together and happy.
The bar was the most striking feature of the pub, an old-fashioned affair of wood and brass, with a thick railing running all the way around it. But every time I looked through the window, I saw a sight more striking that the bar itself.
I saw you.
I watched a thousand tiny reflections of your image waver and dance around in the glasses lining the back of the bar. You did more than just tend the bar; you tended to everyone who walked in, giving them a warm smile along with their drink. You created the atmosphere that everyone who walked in felt like an old friend. Everyone gravitated towards you; you were the real source of light and warmth in that place.
When I heard you laugh, the sound was intoxicating to me.
I longed to meet you, but I didn’t know how. My shyness paralyzed me whenever I thought of starting up a conversation. And, even if I had the nerve, I would only get the same easy smile you gladly portioned out to everyone. I wanted more than camaraderie, I wanted connection. I wanted you to know that I was different from any other woman. I wanted you to know that I could make you feel things no one else could.
A Christmas party a few days later provided the opportunity I had been looking for. People filled the pub until it was a humming beehive of activity. I went unnoticed in the corner among the drinking and revelry of the other patrons. You poured drink after drink behind the bar like a pro, never missing an order, never faltering in your banter with the customers. Since you were working you, of course, kept sober. As I well knew from several nights of watching you, you only drank bottles of spring water. In the happy chaos of the party, you couldn’t be blamed for having your back turned, for not noticing my hand pass briefly over the bottle as I poured another liquid in.
I saw you wipe your sleeve across your forehead, wicking away the perspiration. I saw you reach for the bottle without looking, without noticing, and drink everything down in one long swig.
I smiled.
A few minutes later, I saw you leave the pub through the back door, carrying a crate of empty bottles into the alley. I was standing at the other end, disguised by shadows and midnight. You didn’t see me. I had my eye firmly fixed on you, though, knowing you had to drop soon.
You staggered as you set the crate of bottles down and blinked heavily. Shaking your head to clear it of the sudden fog, you tried to reach for the door handle, but your hand missed it. You stumbled against the wall and slumped down to the icy ground. Your head lolled back and you closed your eyes.
I watched you wake. You didn’t know I was there, of course. I can be quiet as a mouse when I want to. Even my breaths were silent sips of air.
You regained consciousness slowly, as expected. I heard you mutter in confusion and disbelief as you began to realize that you were in an unfamiliar room. There were bare brick walls on all sides and darkness; the only light was hanging far over your head. I heard your startled exclamations as you realized you were strapped on your back to a table. The restraints were thick leather, the table solid oak.
Silence was not my only virtue; I was also good at waiting. I sat patiently in a chair outside of your range of vision as you called for help, then screamed curses, then finally fell silent yourself. When your head dropped back in silent resignation, I knew it was time to begin.
I pushed the chair back to stand up and the legs scraped the stone floor underneath. The sound rang out like a gunshot in the silent room and I saw your entire body vibrate in sudden alertness. You craned your head and called out.
I stood still and was silent.
It was five whole minutes, after you decided the sound was only a fluke and just prayed it wasn’t a rat, before I started to walk towards you. Your head whipped around at the sound of my clicking heels and I saw your nostrils flare with fear.
I stood right next to the table’s edge, right outside the circle of light that illuminated you. I could smell the salty tang of your fear at not being able to see me.
“You won’t be hurt,” I assured. “I don’t want your pain…I want your laughter.”
I have always been a woman to get right to the point.
In the next moment, you felt a sensation in the palm of your right hand. You looked up as much as your bonds would allow. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of red. You realized that the red was the slender tip of a feather and I was tickling your outstretched palm.
The palms of hands can be such tender places. I made sure to tie you with your hands spread open, so I could have the distinct pleasure of stroking them with the feather. I lost myself in making swirling patterns in your palms and dipping the plume between your fingers.
I moved down your arms and dabbled in the smooth depressions that were the hollows of your elbows. Suddenly, you felt the torment cease as the feather lifted from your skin.
Then my breath was next to your ear, very close, very warm. “Ticklish?” I asked, taunting.
The stream of my breath was followed by the feather as I traced the rims of both your ears with the tip. You thrashed and I held your head still in a solid grip.
I put the feather aside. Drawn in by the tempting sight of your neck, I lightly danced my fingernails down your throat. The red feather was replaced with ten red nails, skating across the surface of your neck.
Teasing your neck, I admit, was merely misdirection on my part. I wanted you so distracted by that tickle torment that you would never suspect your delicious underarms were going to be my next target.
You were completely unprepared as I pounced, scrabbling my nails around under your arms, delighting in your screams of ticklish laughter. I wanted to hear you laugh harder – I goosed the long, rope-like muscles running down the front of your armpits. I reached over with both thumbs and tickled your raised nipples with tormenting circles as my other fingers continued to tickle under your arms.
I gave you two minutes of rest. You were too winded to speak. The sound of your labored breathing filled the room like steam engine of an ancient train.
I watched as the natural color returned to your face. I saw that you had just about regained enough energy to beg me to let you go. I wasn’t interested in hearing you beg yet. I wanted to hear more laughter.
I inserted one long fingernail into the tender cup of your navel and stirred it around as you tried to buck off of the table. I moved my finger fast and then slowly, then back to fast again. Every move I made seemed to increase your ticklishness.
I wondered if your entire torso was ticklish.
I grabbed your ribs in both of my hands and began to strongly massage them. As I saw you splutter with uncontrollable laughter, I decided it was time for some verbal play.
“Is that your pleasure, sir? You like it on your ribs? I’m going to squeeze these juicy ribs for all they’re worth and give you a long, rollicking rib tickle!”
I slid my fingers between the bones and tickled each rib one at a time, over and over. I heard and felt you become increasingly frantic – you thought the torture on your sides would never end.
I wanted to keep you off balance. I knew tickling unexpected spots on your body would keep you frenzied and hyper-ticklish. I left your ribs and reached down.
“Most men,” I purred, “are extremely ticklish here. I understand it can be excruciating. Let me know.”
I grabbed your hipbones, right above the sides of the pelvis and started to squeeze, tickling at a rapid pace. I tickled furiously for several minutes and then stopped. I resumed tickling and then stopped. The pauses were just as important as the music of your laughter. Now, I did want to hear you beg.
Slicked with sweat and tormented with forced hysteria, your pride was gone. You begged.
Heedless of your desperate pleas (although I enjoyed hearing them), I moved down towards your feet. You still couldn’t see anything of me except shadows, but you knew where I was going. You started to scream in earnest.
You promised me things; things you didn’t have and could never hope to have – money, jewels, cars, mansions. You promised me anything I wanted in the entire world and almost promised me your very soul if I would only leave your feet alone.
I smiled. “I already have what I want.”
I bent down close to the twin curves of your high, taut arches. You felt my breath on your soles and even that tickled you.
“Delicious,” I said and began to lick. Starting at your left heel, I ran my tongue slowly up the length of your foot and over your toes. I followed suit on the other foot.
My fingers started to itch with the anticipation. They wanted to tickle you to the point of madness. I let my fingertips scamper all over your feet. I tweaked your toes and pinched your smooth heels. I firmly stroked your arches up and down relentlessly, savoring your helpless laughter.
Between screams, you begged me for “No more!” Your piteous cries for mercy only made me tickle you harder; I was without any mercy. I wanted all the laughter you had inside wrung out of you like water from a wet cloth. I was determined to get every drop.
It was impossible to resist playing with your perfect little toes. I wiggled my forefinger between them, one by one, my fingernails scratching the tender and ticklish skin connecting them.
“Kootchie, kootchie,” I cooed, with a mixture of playfulness and sadism. “You like it between your toes, don’t you? You like that a lot! Well, I’ll just keep doing it, if that’s your favorite spot.”
I tickled until your soles and toes were flushed red. Both feet looked properly tormented. Any woman of mercy would have stopped there, would have let you go. But as I previously said, of all of my virtues, mercy is a quality I simply lack.
I wrapped one arm around your bound ankles and pulled both of your big toes back firmly with my strong fingers. The bright, red nails of the other hand hovered over your vulnerable soles like a swarm of bees ready to strike.
“This is it, my love, the grand finale. Don’t say I never gave you anything for the holidays.”
I attacked your soles in a savage tickle assault and listened with satisfaction as the sounds of your hilarious screams bounced off of the walls.
Afterwards, limp, you lay on the table near a state of unconsciousness. I helped you slip under the rest of the way by placing a chemical-soaked cloth over your nose and mouth. My crimson fingernails were the last things you saw.
I propped you up in the alley behind the pub and watched as you came to, blinking into the morning sun and astonished that it was now day and not night.
Your aching body and the chafe marks on your wrists, just slightly red, told you what happened hadn’t been a dream. You looked down at your shirtfront and saw a note pinned to the material with a jaunty, red-and-white, candy cane pin. Trembling, you opened it.
“Wishing you much holiday ‘merriment’ and ‘cheer’ – until the next time we meet.”
I watched from a safe distance across the street as you rose to unsteady feet and staggered back into your restaurant.
You wouldn’t call the police. I knew that. Was it assault? Maybe. But what would you say, how could you explain? And, you didn’t even see my face.
You wouldn’t leave; you wouldn’t sell your place and pack up your whole life, trying to escape a mad tickler who’d held you for the night. I knew that too. Your life was here, surrounded by that circle of light and warmth and friends. You wouldn’t abandon the cozy cocoon of the pub because of one bizarre incident.
Most of all, I knew the other reason, the real reason, you wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t see me all the time we were together, but I could see you. I saw how much you really enjoyed being tickled, deep down. You liked the madness and the frenzy. You liked being made to laugh and made to surrender.
Secretly, you waited for “next time”.
So did I.
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A WINTER'S TALE
by Laughter n Love
People think they know me, but they don't know the real me.
Some come in once and never return. I make them feel welcome for the short time they spend with me. Some come in whenever they are lonely or in need of a friend. I'm there for them without question, ready to brighten their night with good cheer or offer them a sympathetic ear. Some come in nightly, as if this were their real home and not just a place they come to escape from the realities that are their lives. I treat them like family, but unlike family, I never judge, scorn, or lecture. I accept them, with all their flaws, with all their pain. I always have a smile and a drink and a joke waiting for them, and they love me for it.
But that's not all that I'm about.
Sure, I derive some pleasure out of being there for all these people, these souls in need of warmth and compassion. But that's part of the job. If you can't offer a piece of yourself to people, you don't become a bartender, simple as that.
But what about my needs? What about the things in life that bother me? Who is there to listen to me? Who is there to bring ease to my soul?
I try not to dwell on these things, and thankfully, I'm usually too busy at work to have time to ponder them. It's when my shift is over and I return home to my empty apartment, alone, that my demons come to visit with me. It's funny that no one ever questions why I volunteer to work double shifts all the time, despite the fact that I own the place.
The night of my abduction was no different than any other as I can remember. There was a corporate Christmas party being held at the pub, the kind where the patrons are more dressed up and festive than my usual crowd, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. It was the third Christmas party we'd hosted that week, and too many new faces among the crowds for me to remember anyone suspicious. I remember being extremely busy that night, and working up a sweat, and exchanging jokes with a number of faceless people, but nothing to be on my guard about. It wasn't until a lull in the action where I went to take out some trash and restock the bar that things got weird.
I didn't feel good. In fact, I felt like I was going to pass out. As I reached for the door in the alley, the last thing I remember was thinking, "I'm going to pass out." And that's exactly what I must have done.
When I awoke, my brain felt like it was mired in cotton. Nothing seemed right or made sense. I wasn't in the back alley outside the bar, or anyplace else I recognized for that matter. It was dark, and cold, and I felt stiff and sore. Eventually the cobwebs in my head started to clear, and I was able to blink away the grogginess of my unnatural sleep.
Unfortunately, I learned little more by being alert, althought the realizations of my situation did start to become clear to me one by one. The first was that I was a prisoner of some kind; thick leather straps at my wrists and ankles held me flat on my back to a hard surface, most likely a solid table of sorts. My body was stretched tightly at both ends, with even my fingers being splayed out and individually strapped to the wood. A quick struggle convinced me I wasn't going anywhere.
I next realized that I was not naked, although I was very nearly so. Of my clothing, only my boxer shorts had been left to me. There was no sign of the rest of my clothes.
The room about me offer no clues of any kind. It was small, and almost completely shrouded in darkness. Of my surroundings, I could make out nothing except the faint outline of brick walls on either side. The only piece of furniture or decoration of any kind appeared to be the table on which I lay. A weak light from overhead was the sole source of illumination in the room, and it was angled directly into my eyes. I could see no door, no window, nor any evidence explaining what I might be doing here. I began to panic.
"Help!" I cried. "Can anybody hear me?!" I waited, but there was no answer in return. I called again and again, but each time only silence answered my cries. I struggled again, more furiously this time, but as before, I remained tightly strapped to the table, with aching muscles and a heart full of despair as my only reward. I began to get angry, enraged by my helplessness and the futility of my situation. My cries for help were replaced by violent curses towards the person or persons responsible for this. I promised to do unspeakable things to them, to their families, to anyone they cared for. I shouted in vain, accomplishing nothing but trying my best to keep from giving in to the fear I felt. Finally, when I had yelled myself hoarse, I sighed deeply and then lay quiet. There was nothing for me to do but wait.
Suddenly a noise! I nearly had a heart attack at the sound, at how close by my head it had seemed. It came from within the room, but from just outside of my field of vision. I strained my neck to see what had caused it, to find the source, but the straps holding me down prevented me from turning far enough. My heart thudded wildly in my chest. Was there something in the room with me? Was there someone else here?
I called out, timidly at first. "Hello? Is anyone there?" I was torn between getting an answer and NOT getting an answer. The not knowing was killing me. "Hello?" I called, a bit louder.
As before, there was no answer in return. I began to think I had imagined the noise, that my tortured brain had conjured it out of thin air, in the same way that sometimes things seem to move in the darkness when you know they couldn't possibly have moved. The beating in my heart began to slow, but my senses remaind on high alert.
And then I heard footsteps walking towards me! High heels. The footsteps of a woman, close by. She must have been almost directly behind me all along. I fought to see her face, but she stopped by the table, just outside the light. I was both furious and terrified.
"You won't be hurt," the woman said in a voice devoid of emotion. “I don’t want your pain…I want your laughter.”
I started to protest, to demand my release, when I felt something tickling at the palm of my right hand. I looked up and was horrified to see out of the corner of my eye the tip of a red feather dancing along my immobile hand. I tried to clench it shut, to ward off the irritating sensations, but the straps along my fingers prevented such an action. The muscles in my fingers and arm began to twitch involuntarily. I felt the red feather move to my other hand and repeat the tickling. Full fledged panic filled my heart. Was this what she had meant by wanting my laughter? Was she going to tickle me?
The feather moved down my arms in answer to my unasked question. I fought to keep from laughing out loud. I've always been highly ticklish, and what she was doing to me was borderline torture. I did not want to show this faceless woman she was getting to me, however, lest she decide to torment me further. I choked back the giggles.
As suddenly as it started, the tickling of my elbows ceased. I breathed a shallow sigh of relief, glad that was over. Perhaps she'd be discouraged at my lack of response and give up this mad idea.
Her voice was in my ear, breathy. “Ticklish?” she asked, and I paled at the playfulness in her voice as I suddenly realized my torture had only just begun. I felt the feather teasing the edges of my ears, and I whipped my head from side to side to avoid it. She grabbed my head in a surprisingly strong grip and patiently tickled my inner ears with the feather. The urge to scream came upon me, but I fought it off. I could take it...I could take it....
Suddenly she was tickling my neck with ten long, red fingernails. I burst out laughing, as this was more 'ticklish' than the maddening torture of my ears. I struggled as much as my bonds would allow, trying to give her nothing to work with by pulling my chin down in a protective manner, but she was persistent, and always found the openings I was forced to leave her. The giggles came out of my mouth in a steady stream now as I fought, and lost, the battle to keep her away from my sensitive neck.
The reaction of my body to the suddenness of her fingernails in my underarms was quicker than the recognition in my brain. My body lurched off the table even as I screamed in ticklish surprise. There had been no warning, no hint that this was coming. Thrashing against the table was the only response I could muster against this most wicked of tortures. Lowering my arms or twisting out of reach were not options to me. Even my attempts at bravery were weakening, as the cackling in my throat echoed forth unabated. Her fingertips tortured me rapidly, without pause or refrain. I felt her nails skittering everywhere, over my chest and around my nipples, and my body broke out in head to toe gooseflesh. Yet even as I suffered, I felt my body betraying me, as my nipples hardened in delight, and my manhood twitched awake.
The tickling stopped, and I fought to regain the breath she had stolen from me. I felt myself covered in a thin layer of sweat, evidence of a hopeless struggle for freedom I was forced to endure. I would have pleaded for mercy if I could do more than suck in great gulps of air, as somehow I knew this hell was no yet over, but I felt too weak to speak yet. I could only hope that she would feel pity and end this cruel game.
A wiggilng fingernail in the center of my navel let me know that my respite was over. I bucked my hips, desperate to dislodge that single fingernail, as I could not stand to have it in my belly button for even a second longer. But like an expert bullrider, she anticipated my every movement, and the nail remained firmly in place, tickling me faster or slower as she pleased. I was once again drowning in a sea of forced laughter, hoping against hope that that single fingernail in my navel would not drive me insanse as I feared it would. It seemed an odd way to lose one's sanity, but yet I feared that was my fate.
As if I had not suffered enough, I felt her hands kneading my ribs on both sides in a squeezing sort of tickle. This was no better than the torture of my navel, as my ribs were insanely ticklish. To make matters worse, she began to verbally taunt me.
“Is that your pleasure, sir? You like it on your ribs? I’m going to squeeze these juicy ribs for all they’re worth and give you a long, rollicking rib tickle!”
I barely heard the mocking tone of her voice, as I was lost in my own misery. It felt like she tickled my ribs forever, and there was no defense available to me to ward it off. My laughter became harder and more frenzied. The sweat on my body thickened. The desperation in my bucking and thrashing became more pronounced. And the swelling of my manhood increased to the point of near pain.
She was obvoiusly enjoying my misery. “Most men,” she purred, “are extremely ticklish here. I understand it can be excruciating. Let me know.” I felt her attack my hips bones.
I screeched in agony as her fingers dug into these inexplicably ticklish places. My hips pounded uselessly against the table as I fought to avoid her fingertips. If it were possible, the torturous tickling seemed to be getting worse with each new target she selected. I couldn't stand this fresh Hell. I knew I'd certainly blow a fuse if she didn't stop.
And she did, and for a moment I was not being tickled at all. I gulped in fresh air, ready to plead for mercy when it began again, again on my hips. As before, I fought in vain for freedom and to remain sane. And just when I felt at the point of no return, she stopped again. And then started again.
How many times she toyed with me in the manner I cannot remember. What I know is I measured time by how long it took for me to feel my sanity threatened with every digging probe of her strong fingertips. She tortured me for to the point where the simplest of squeezes to my pelvic area were enough to have me flopping about on the verge of madness.
And then she stopped, and as soon as I realized that my hips would not again be attacked, I launched into begging. I no longer cared about saving face against this woman. I only cared about not being tickled anymore. I pleaded with her. I reasoned with her. I tried to appeal to her sense of mercy. She responded by walking towards my feet.
At the sight of this, my pleading rose to desperate levels. I babbled incoherently, saying anything I could think of to keep her away from my feet. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for her or given to her if she would only not do this inhuman thing.
I could almost hear the smile in her voice as she replied, “I already have what I want.”
I've never been so frightened in all my life.
I heard her mutter the word, “Delicious”, even as I felt her tongue running up my left foot. My body convulsed like I was undergoing shock therapy. She repeated the torture along the bottom of my right foot, and I responded by lurching in my bonds. My feet were simply far too ticklish for this kind of torment.
And then it got worse.
The assault of ten red nails, for all I know polished and sharpened for the sole purpose of tickling my helpless feet, descended upon my defenseless soles. I screamed bloody murder and cackled like a madman, twitching and thrashing and struggling with what little energy I still had in me. And yet the torture of my feet continued. How I managed to beg for her to stop amid my insane laughter I'll never know, but there was no mercy to be had for me. She tickled every inch of my feet, from my captive heels to my curling and protesting toes. She seemed to find great pleasure in attacking my toes. I know I heard her taunting me further about them, but I was too far gone to make anything out. My mind was all consumed with the Hell my feet were undergoing. To make matters worse, I found myself almost savagely turned on by this relentless torture, as if a lust to be mercilessly tickled like this had lay dormant inside me all along, and was only now being allowed to awaken. I felt I would soon either pass out or shoot my load. Something had to give. I felt her arm wrap around my ankles, felt her pulling my straining toes back, felt a flurry of nails scraping the flesh of my feet. The last thing I remember was screaming.
The events that followed are a jumble to me. I know the tickling stopped at some point, but I was not aware of it. I do remember a rag being pulled over my face, and then nothing.
I awoke in the alley behind the pub, trying to get my bearings in what I was surprised to find was the sun of the early morning. I was alone and cold, but found I was once again dressed. In fact, a note had been pinned to my shirt.
“Wishing you much holiday ‘merriment’ and ‘cheer’ – until the next time we meet.”
I look around anxiously, trying to see if my attacker were still in my presence, but I was most definitely alone. Sore and exhausted, I rose timidly to my feet and headed back into the pub. My mind was a whirlwind.
I kept the note with me, thinking to myself that I might one day be able to identify the owner by the handwriting, but that wasn't the only reason. The real reason I kept it was because I like to reread it when I was alone. Secretly, I liked the idea that I might one day be abducted like that again, which is why I never did call the police or even speak of the events to anyone. Because as bizarre and helacious as the experience was, I found myself thinking of it often, and the sexual state of mind it put me could not be denied. Would my torturer make good on her promise? There was only one way to find out...go back to work and wait for her to strike again. Which is exactly what I did, except now my dreary days were full of wonder and anticipated and the excitement of wondering, “will it happen again?”
