I did not write this, its an old story by Malasfan
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The Set-Up
Although the day had been spent innocuously enough on a routine shopping trip with her
sister Ellen, it was a day that Susan now understood she was never to forget, and looking
back on it, she wondered just how she had managed to find herself in the predicament she
was in now, and how she had ended up this way willingly.
The whole thing was so absurd as to be unbelievable, but it was real nonetheless, and the
most frustrating part was that she had fallen into a well-devised trap, and had effectively
burned her bridges behind her while thinking she had been the smart one.
Again they were letting her rest for a few moments, but it was only a matter of time before
they started in on her again. Her chest heaved as she tried to regain her breath before the
next onslaught. How much longer? There was no clock she could see, so she had no idea
how long they had been at it. She had given up trying to get free--her fiance Mark had
done an excellent job with the ropes and had then sat down to enjoy the show. And he
was enjoying it, sitting there on the couch with his shit-eating grin. She wondered how
come he had known how to tie her up so well--she could barely move--but was not sure
she would like the answer.
Earlier that evening, Susan and Ellen had burst into the living room to find their mother
and Mark watching television. "Guess what," Susan gushed, "I just bought the cutest
outfit for the summer. You'll simply love it."
"She balked at first," Susan said, "but I told her that with her figure, it would be a crime
not to buy it."
"That's marvelous, dear, why don't you try it on and model it for us?"
"Oh, I couldn't possibly do it now, it's so skimpy."
"Sounds nice," said Mark, giving her a wink.
"Nonsense," said her mother. "We're family, and you're practically married to Mark
already."
"Well, all right. Just give me a minute." And with that, she bounded out of the room to
change.
Susan was a lively, gorgeous 24 year-old girl with dark hair, blue eyes, and a figure most
girls would kill for. She was blessed with a rare combination of beauty and brains, but the
only problem was that she was quite aware of both attributes and never passed up an
opportunity to flaunt them. Ellen was ten pounds heavier, and about five IQ points less
intelligent, still quite smart and attractive, but a lifetime of being Susan's younger sister left
her a much more humble person. Their mother understood this all perfectly, but was
never able to quell Susan's irritating ability to act like she was always just a
little smarter than those around her. It didn't take Susan long to return in an outfit that
caused Mark to stand up and whistle, then stop in embarrassment as he remembered her
mother was in the same room.
Susan was attired in a green miniskirt and a strapless bikini top that seemed to be custom
designed for her. The outfit showed off her slim waist, her cleavage, and her shapely legs.
Her shoulders and collarbones were flawless, as if designed by an artist. "I'm so
embarrassed," she said unconvincingly, as she gracefully spun around like a model.
"You look simply beautiful," said her mother. "Ellen was absolutely right to talk you into
buying that."
"Why, thank you." Susan accepted the compliment like it was her due.
"You're very welcome. Have a seat. We were just watching Howard Stern."
Susan sat down on a couch between Mark and Ellen and saw that Howard, dressed in a
Santa Claus hat, had three girls tied to chairs in his studio.
"What's this all about?" giggled Susan.
"It's his Christmas show. They're having a contest."
Then Howard began tickling one of the girls on the ribs as lettering saying, "Tickle
Timer," appeared on the screen. Numbers were counting down as he tickled the girls.
"Yeah, Susan," said her sister. "The girls win money if they can last long enough without
divulging the secret word."
"What's so hard about that? It's only a couple of minutes. Look's like easy money to me."
"I don't know about that. What do you think, Mark?"
"I'd like to be Howard right now."
Susan gave him a light punch on the arm and said, "You would!"
"He's not going about it the right way," said her mother. "For one thing, they're not tied
very well. And with the exception of the one girl, they're wearing too much."
Ellen giggled and said, "Then Susan wouldn't last ten seconds dressed like that."
"Oh, I could too. How come you know so much about it, Mom?"
"We used to do it as kids all the time. We'd have contests to see who could last the
longest before saying 'Uncle.' The other kids had to buy the winner ice cream. I was the
best tickler of all, if I do say so myself."
"What was the record?" asked Ellen.
"Your Aunt Debbie once lasted an hour."
Susan was confused by this revelation. "I don't remember you ever tickling us as kids."
"Good riddance," said Ellen.
"That's because I enjoyed it so much, I didn't feel right about tickling my own daughters."
"You didn't tickle us because you liked it? That doesn't make any sense at all."
"No, I suppose not."
Another girl had survived Howard's tickling to win a cash prize "Easy money," Susan said
with a hint of contempt. Howard was starting in on the third girl, but after a moment,
Susan realized nobody had answered her. Instead they were all looking at her
speculatively. Feeling vaguely uncomfortable in her scanty clothing, and being intelligent
enough to see what was on their minds, she said, "I feel a draft in here," and started to
get up.
Mark and Ellen each grabbed a bare arm, and they pulled her back down on the couch.
"Oh, no you don't," said Susan, shaking her head emphatically. "You're not doing that to
me."
"You're quite right," said her mother. "She'd never be able to take it."
"I'm not falling for that one, Mom."
Ellen spoke up. "Why not? You were just complaining that Mom never tickled us."
"I wasn't complaining."
"It sounded like it to me," said Mark.
"You stay out of this."
"Let's have a vote," said Ellen. "I vote yes."
"So do I," agreed Mark.
"I say no, and my vote counts the most."
"I say yes," said their mother.
"For a lousy bowl of ice cream? Not likely."
"No, we'd make the stakes a little higher. Like, maybe that dress you saw at Broadway
last week...."
"That cost a fortune, Mom," said Susan.
"There's really no risk involved. You could never beat Aunt Debbie's record."
"Oh, yeah?" said Susan, her nimble mind looking for a sure-fire plan to win. There wasn't
much of anything she wouldn't do for new clothes, especially expensive ones.
"You couldn't possibly withstand that much tickling, Susan. You're not used to it."
"Okay, I'll do it, but only if you'll get that nice purse we saw there too."
"I don't know," she said doubtfully.
"See, you're not sure I won't last."
"Okay, it's a deal."
"Good," said Ellen, "but saying 'uncle' is a bit lame. I can write a quick computer program
on the laptop to accept a password that Susan can enter, and then it will count down for
an hour. If Susan doesn't divulge the password before the count if finished, she wins.
Otherwise she loses. It will only take me a minute."
"Excellent suggestion," said her mother. "There's some clothesline in a kitchen drawer.
I'll go get it."
"Clothesline?" Susan said uneasily.
Ellen giggled as she typed at a laptop on the coffee table, and said, "Mark can tie you up,
Susan. Doesn't that sound like fun?" She giggled again at the thought.
"Oh, yeah. Just great," she answered sarcastically.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Mark said happily.
Ellen finished just as her mother returned with a mess of clothesline which she tossed to
Mark.
Ellen stood up from the laptop. "Okay just type in a password. We'll get it out of you
shortly."
"Oh, yeah?" That wasn't going to happen, thought Susan who already knew how to win
for sure. She sat at the laptop and read the text, "Enter password." They were so sure of
themselves, but Susan was going to show them. She looked away from the keyboard and
pressed a few random keys. Then she hit the return key and saw, "Password accepted."
They couldn't get a password if she didn't know it herself.
"Tie her hands together in front of her, Mark."
"Gladly. Come on, Susan, give me your hands."
Reluctantly, Susan put her wrists together and held them out to Mark, who wrapped the
clothesline neatly around her proffered wrists several times. This wasn't so bad, she
thought, as he tied the ends together in a square knot. Heck, it was even kind of fun.
"Okay, where should I sit?"
"You're not going to be in a chair," said her mother.
Mark then took another, longer piece of clothesline and tied it around the rope between
her wrists, leaving two lengths of several feet. This made the binding a little tighter; there
was no way she could easily work her self free without using her teeth.
"Then where will I be, on the floor?"
"See that beam, Mark?" Her mother pointed to an oak beam that connected two walls
near a corner.
"Yes."
"Tie her wrists to it, as high as you can." Near the ceiling, each end of the beam
connected solidly to a wall at a forty five degree angle. On top of it were several potted
plants. Three corners of the room had such beams, but the one her mother wanted was
above two couches, which sat at ninety degrees to each other. "You can move that small
table out of the way. There's a stepladder in the hall closet, if you'll be so kind to get it."
"My pleasure."
Susan was only beginning to appreciate what they intended to do, and was mortified at the
thought. After watching Howard Stern with the three bound girls, she had assumed she
would also be in a chair with her wrists tied behind her, or to the armrests. But they
planned to tie her arms over her head, which was a whole different story. And dressed the
way she was, her bare underarms would be hopelessly exposed. She shuddered at the
thought. Even the slightest touch to her underarms drove her crazy.
Mark returned with the stepladder and moved the table out of the way. Then he led her to
the corner by pulling on the long piece of clothesline. "This way, my dear," he said as they
led her to where the table had been, just beneath the beam. He turned her around so she
was facing the room, and climbed the stepladder, still holding onto the clothesline. When
Mark tried to pull her arms up, she resisted, keeping them tightly clamped to her sides.
"Come on, Susan, don't be shy," said her mother.
"Yeah, Susan," said Ellen, get those arms up so Mark can finish.
Susan gave in and let her bare arms be pulled up, involuntarily shuddering at the
knowledge of what this was for. He wrapped each length in opposite directions several
times around the beam, then tied a sturdy knot on top, leaving her arms tightly secured
high above her head.
What have I got myself into? she thought desperately.
Mark stepped down and stood in front of her, obviously enjoying her predicament. "Are
you all right, girl?"
"Just fine," she said sarcastically.
"Her legs too Mark...yes that's good."
Mark tied some more clothesline around a slender ankle and pulled it toward a couch leg
and secured it tightly. Susan gasped as he did the job on the other ankle, attaching it to
the other couch. The result was that the hapless Susan was tightly stretched in an inverted
Y between the overhead beam and the two couches.
Except for being able to twist her body a little, she could barely move.
Susan looked up and saw her bare arms both tightly secured to the beam and wiggled her
hands to test her bonds, but there was definitely no way she could get loose. Then she
looked down and saw her legs were no better off. She looked at each person in the room
in turn, and saw that each held a bemused expression as they watched her helplessness.
How did a girl maintain her dignity like this? she wondered, and realized she was blushing.
What they saw was mostly bare skin, from her bound ankles to her sleek bare legs, past
her miniskirt to her flat bare midriff, her chest and cleavage, raising up and down with her
slightly accelerated breathing, the smooth hollows of her underarms, her arms and her
bound wrists. Her hands just hung there limply, as if she already knew the futility of
escape.
Susan fought down a panic attack. A girl who seldom stayed still very long, she was
unaccustomed to this utter helplessness. She had never been tied up before. It only took
a few seconds to feel an itch on her back, and her arm automatically tried to move down
to scratch it. She was tempted to ask someone to scratch it for her, but knew what that
would lead to.
Something was gnawing at the back of her mind, adding to her unease. It was too easy
the way they had talked her into this. One minute they were watching Howard Stern, the
next Mark was tying her up. Susan glanced at the television and saw that one of the
bound girls was being pushed down a hallway and into an elevator. Then she knew what
was wrong.
The VCR play light was on! And she knew she had been set up.
"You taped this, didn't you!"
"Why yes, we did," said her mother, who had her back to Susan and was getting
something out of a drawer in a small table. When she turned around, Susan saw several
feathers in her hand. Her mouth went dry at the thought.
"You planned this whole thing out! All of you! Let me go NOW!"
Her mother looked startled at the thought of Susan giving up so soon. "Well, okay. Mark
will untie you. Just tell us the password."
"Forget the damned password. You all conned me, so the deal is non-binding."
Ellen burst out laughing. "Non-binding? It looks to me like you're bound pretty well.
You should see yourself."
"Yes," agreed Mark. "She really is in a bind."
Her mother set the feathers on the coffee table and started filing her nails. "Just give me a
minute, Susan, while I make sure my nails are smooth and won't scratch you." She looked
at her desperate daughter and smiled. "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right with you."
"Very funny. And you Ellen, you did seem awfully determined I buy this outfit."
"Yes, Sister. I had to get you into the best tickle suit I could."
"Tickle suit?" said her mother. "I rather like that name."
Susan saw that the computer had "PAUSED" in flashing red letters. "Isn't your program
supposed to be counting the time?"
"Yes, but we're not tickling you yet," said her mother.
"I'm getting impatient, Mom. Can I try the feathers on her? Please?"
"Well, okay. Work on her back while I finish my nails."
Ellen pressed the space bar on the laptop to set the timer running, stepped behind Susan,
and ran both feathers up Susan's bare back, one on each side, and was rewarded by an
immediate twitch. With circular motions, she worked her way up and down Susan's back
and delightedly heard a giggle and more twitching.
"Ellen, stop that, will you?"
Ellen giggled also and moved the feathers to Susan's sides, which brought more giggles
and further protests.
"Why, hee hee, are you all doing this to me? Why?"
"Well, Susan," explained her mother, who had stopped doing her nails to watch Susan's
torment, "we were all watching Howard Stern a couple days ago when Ellen said, 'That's
exactly what Susan needs, a good tickling.' I immediately agreed, of course."
"But why, Mom? Hee hee. Will you please stop that, Ellen?" The feathers were working
up her spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily. The itch she had felt earlier had faded
into insignificance. God, it was getting annoying! Ellen moved down to the back of
Susan's legs, running the feathers from her bound ankles to the hem of her miniskirt. Her
legs jerked, but could not escape the damned feathers.
"This is fun, Mom."
"Fun for you, maybe. Hee hee."
Her mother set down the nail file and came over to Susan, who recoiled before her mother
was even within range. She wiggled her fingers at Susan and was rewarded by a shriek
before she even touched her. The psychological part of tickling was a large part of the
technique. "You need a lesson in humility, Susan. You treat the rest of us as if we were
dumb, and it's time you learned otherwise."
"I, hee hee, do not."
"Yes, you do. You can get an A without studying, and do the New York Times
crossword without a dictionary--you're definitely smart--and we're all very proud of you,
but the problem is that you are proud of yourself also and think everyone else is stupid.
The catch is that you're predictable."
"I am not predictable."
With one hand, her mother gently stroked her nails once across Susan's bare midriff.
Susan shrieked and pulled back as far as her bonds would let her. "Yes, you're
predictable. After Ellen's comment that you needed a good tickling, we worked on
ideas about how to get you to agree to it. It was remarkably easy. You're there
voluntarily. Nobody lied to you or forced you into it."
"Yeah," said Ellen. "We may not be as smart as you, but look who's barely clothed and
tied up right now."
"How could you do this to me, Mark?"
"They called me up and asked me if I wanted to see you get tickled. How could I refuse?
Besides, I have to stay on the good side of my future in-laws."
"Mom, please let me go."
"Tell me the password."
"I can't," moaned Susan.
Her mother gently scratched Susan's sides, which caused her to laugh and convulse. "The
password, Susan."
"I, ha ha ha, I can't, ha ha, my God, stop, ha ha it." She tried to ignore it, to think of other
things, but it was impossible. And this was only her sides.
Her mother continued for about a minute, then stopped. Susan, her chest heaving, hung
her head and said, "I can't tell you--no listen first--I don't know it. Ahhhh, ha ha ha...."
The nails were on her stomach now, moving around her navel. For Susan it was agony.
She jerked like a puppet, lurching in various directions with as far as the ropes would let
her, which wasn't very far at all. Ellen had stopped with the feathers, but Susan didn't
even notice it. The fingers on her abdomen was a hundred times more intense. Eventually
they stopped, and Susan fell silent.
"Listen a minute, will you?" she gasped, trying to raise her head. "I didn't look at the
keys."
"Oh, my. That was very, very unwise," said her mother..
"But it was predictable," said Ellen. "Didn't you think it strange that the program didn't
ask for a password confirmation? We suspected you might do something like that.
Should you tell her the rest, Mom?"
"Sure, why not?" Her mother pressed the space bar, causing the PAUSED sign to appear
again. Out of her purse she took a piece of paper and held it up for Susan to see. It was a
Broadway gift certificate for a thousand dollars. "I won this in a raffle last week. I'm
going to take us all on a shopping trip. The money will cover that dress, and a lot more
too."
"Oh, my God. Will you just let me go?"
"The password, Susan." Her mother shook her head. "Actually I'm glad. I sincerely miss
my tickling days as a child, and believe me, I'm going to make the best of this
opportunity." With that, her mother pressed the space bar and reached around to Susan's
back and placed one nail from each index finger on Susan's back just above her bra strap.
Slowly she traced around towards her sides.
"No," moaned Susan, who stiffened in terror.
When the fingers made the transition from Susan's back to her tickle zone, she didn't even
try to jerk away. Instead, started laughing and just slumped with her head thrown back,
dangling by her bound wrists. The fingers made their way around to Susan's chest and
met at her cleavage, then quickly returned to her sides, still above the bra strap. This time
all fingers started working, scratching in various patterns.
For Susan, everything centered around the agony in her sides and her helplessness.
"Hahahaha...arrrrgghhhhh. Stop ha ha. Nooooooo." She was barely able to say an entire
word, much less a sentence. So intense was the experience, she didn't immediately notice
when it had stopped. She wanted to say something, but was too out of breath. Besides, it
wouldn't have done any good anyway. They were going to tickle her and that was all
there was to it.
The computer was paused again when her mother said, "Tell me Susan, what are you
wearing now?"
"A miniskirt and a bikini top." She had managed again to stand on her legs, easing the
tension on her wrists.
"What else?"
"Sandals." Susan was still dazed, and her tone of voice showed it.
"But what else?"
"Nothing."
"Yes you are, Susan."
"What?" she whined.
"What's that around your wrists and ankles?"
"Clothesline."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means I'm tied up, obviously."
"How are you tied?"
"My arms are tied over my head to the beam, my legs to the couches."
Her mother pressed the space bar and placed one nail smack dab in the center of Susan's
left underarm, and was rewarded by a scream. "It means I'm going to tickle you under
your arms and there is nothing, but nothing, you can do about it." Susan didn't know that
Ellen had told their mother how ticklish Susan was under her arms.
"No, not that, Mom. Please, not that."
The fear of tickling was often worse than the tickling itself, which is why her mother was
drawing it out. "Yes, Susan." She tapped the one nail in emphasis, causing Susan to
gasp.
"This is torture, you know that don't you?"
"Of course I know that. The whole point of this was to get you to divulge a simple
password, which you don't know." She began moving the one nail in circular patterns in
Susan's underarm. The sounds from Susan went beyond laughing; hysterics was more like
it.
Susan watched the one nail gently tracing patterns on her underarm, while her mother's
other hand held her bare shoulder. She was unable to stop the insane sounds coming up
from deep within her. Try to think of something else, she thought to herself. Anything.
The new dress, that was it. She would get a new dress out of this, but that had lost its
appeal for the moment--the dress was sleeveless....
Now there were two nails, and all thoughts centered on the agony in her left underarm.
"Noooooo," she screamed, and madly tried to pull herself down from the beam. For a
moment her feet left the floor, but the rope holding her ankles prevented her from being
able to pull herself up far enough to protect her underarms. Then all four fingernails were
working their magic, and Susan again went limp and felt her sanity start to slip as she
screamed, shrieked, moaned, and made other sounds which are difficult to describe.
From the back of her mind she heard Ellen, who was still behind her, say, "Let me try this,
Mom."
"Okay, dear. Step around her and you can take her right side."
"No, Ellen, please don't do it too."
As Ellen stepped around her, she pinched Susan's sides and was rewarded by a shout.
"What do I do, Mom?"
"Try this." Her mother ran her fingernail from Susan's bound wrist, down her bare left
arm, and didn't stop until it reached the top of her bra strap. As it traveled through her
underarm, there was a predictable shout and her entire body jerked.
"Okay," said Ellen, and repeated the maneuver on Susan's right arm, with the same
reaction. "That was fun, Mom. Let's try it at the same time."
Again, the nails traveled down Susan's bare arms, this time in unison, and the shriek was
louder as they stroked her unprotected underarms. As if reading each other's thoughts,
Susan's mother and sister both stroked both underarms furiously, causing Susan to emit
more unearthly noises and jerk convulsively within the confines of her bondage. This went
on for several minutes until Susan's cries and thrashing became weak.
Then they let her rest. Susan sobbed for a minute, but then some pride deep inside her
made her stop. With anguish, she looked at Mark and said, "Do you like seeing me like
this?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do."
To Ellen, she said, "Do you think this is funny?"
"You're the one who's been laughing so hard." Ellen picked up a glass of ice water she
had been drinking and held it in both hands as if she were about to take another sip.
"Some sister you are, helping to get me into this."
With an evil grin, Ellen set down the glass, jumped up, and dug her cold fingers into
Susan's bare ribs and listened to the laughing and felt the thrashing under her probing
fingers. "What kind of sister am I?"
"Ha ha--the best--ha--sister in the--ha--world."
"I'm glad you think so, Susan." Ellen released her sister's ribs and sat back down. "Hey,
Mom, I think she's ready for some more."
"Not yet, Ellen, let her rest and think about it a little longer."
Susan could see Ellen's mind working, could read her thoughts actually, when she again
picked up the dewy glass and looked her way. "Ellen? No, Ellen, that's not fair."
Ellen pressed the space bar and poured the icy water over Susan's bare chest, and down
her back. Susan gasped as the freezing water touched her bare skin. It was like taking a
cold shower, only worse. "You need some cooling off, I think." Ellen poured some on
Susan's bare midriff and some more on her chest. When the glass had only ice, Ellen
tugged at the top of one cup of Susan's bra.
"No, Ellen," begged Susan, but Ellen poured half the ice in the bra's cup, where it landed
against one nipple. She poured the rest in the other cup. Susan twisted and shook, trying
to shake the ice out, but it was no good. It felt both hot and cold at the same time and
there was nothing she could do about it.
"Now, Ellen, that wasn't very nice," said their mother. "Creative maybe, but not very
nice."
"I couldn't resist, Mom."
Susan felt her nipples going numb as the ice melted and ran down her abdomen in thin
rivulets and soaked the top of her miniskirt. At least the computer program was counting
the long seconds toward her eventual freedom, and at least they weren't tickling her at the
moment.
Susan was aware of her beauty and had always liked to wear scanty clothing to show her
lovely body off, especially when the people around her were fully dressed. It gave her a
tingly, sensual feeling knowing that everyone--both male and female--was aware of her
presence. But this was different. The bare skin she enjoyed showing so much had become
a liability because they were taking advantage of her exposed body and were torturing her.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
Nothing.
But even being tied up like this didn't mean she wasn't still in full possession of her vanity.
Susan looked at Mark and said, "How do I look?"
"A little disheveled, but still beautiful. That's a nice pose, by the way."
"I think she's recovered enough for some more tickling, Mom," said Ellen.
Fear struck at Susan's heart, but then she started to analyze the situation. Just what was
so bad about being tickled? It wasn't like they were beating her, in fact they were being
very gentle about it. Her mother had even filed her nails so she wouldn't scratch her. And
it didn't feel altogether unpleasant. It was the helplessness that scared her, especially being
tied up with her bare underarms exposed. She just felt so...so vulnerable like this. She
twisted slightly in a vain attempt to get loose, moaning quietly, her wrists still firmly
trussed to the beam. She was completely helpless and at their mercy. Maybe the best way
do deal with it was to just give in to it completely and not try to fight it.
"My back itches. Will you scratch it please?"
"Of course, dear." Her mother stepped around Susan and gently gave her stomach a tickle
as she did.
"No, Mom," Susan giggled, "My back."
"Okay. Where does it itch?"
"My right shoulder blade."
"How's that?" asked her mother as she scratched Susan's bare back.
"A little to the left, please. There that's better."
"That feels good, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"You're still my little girl."
"I am not your little girl!"
That statement caused her mother to reach around Susan's waist and tickle her stomach
instead.
"Ha ha ha ha nooooooo..."
"Are you my little girl?"
"No!"
This time her mother worked up and down Susan's sides for a minute, enjoying the
sensation of her daughter's laughing and struggling under her fingertips. When she
stopped, she left her hands on Susan's sides and repeated the question.
Susan was out of breath again, and very tempted to say yes, she was indeed her mother's
little girl, but thought what the heck, let's have a battle of wills. "No, I'm not."
Her mother moved her hands upwards until they were right below Susan's bare underarms,
and then gave her a brief tickle.
"What was that?"
"No, I'm not your little girl."
"Are you sure? You know what's going to happen if you say no."
Susan hesitated, then said, "I'm not a little girl...."
The room was filled with Susan's screams and hysterical laughter as her mother
unmercifully scratched her daughter's bare underarms. The sensations caused her entire
body to jerk, and despite her knowledge that she was helpless, she still tried to pull her
wrists free as the fingernails worked their way up and down, back and forth, and in
various circular patterns in the hollows of her underarms. Her face was red and contorted,
her voice shrieking and gasping and begging. Behind her, her mother was saying
"Kootchy Kootchy Koo" repeatedly in her ear. Eventually the fingernails stopped moving.
Her mother held the sides of Susan's shoulders with her palms, with the fingernails still in
place. Even the immobile fingernails were torture for poor Susan.
"What do you have to say now, Susan? Are you my little girl now?"
Finding courage deep within her, she said, "No."
Again the torture began, and after a half minute of shrieking and twisting as the nails
worked on her underarms, Susan said, "Ok--ha ha--ay."
"What was that?"
"Hahaha, okay."
The nails stopped.
"I'm...you're little...girl," Susan managed to gasp.
"That's more like it," her mother said as she removed her fingernails.
Susan let out a sigh of relief as she felt the nails leave her underarms; her mother walked
around Susan and faced her. Susan felt ridiculous and still nervous standing with her arms
tied to the beam in this scanty outfit, knowing how her bare skin presented an irresistible
target.
"Susan."
"Yes, Mom?"
"I bathed my little girl, nursed her when she was a baby, changed her diapers, cleaned her
skinned knees....But I never tickled her. So now I'm going to make up for lost time."
What that, she raised her fingernails like claws.
"No," she said weakly, knowing this was coming.
"Yes, I'm going to tickle my little girl." Her mother gently scratched Susan's stomach and
stopped when she giggled. "But not so intensely this time. I just want to hear my little
girl giggle." She punctuated the word "giggle" with a tweak on Susan's sides.
Susan laughed as her mother gently prodded her sides and stomach. This lighter tickling
wasn't anything like her earlier torture.
"Now, that's not so bad, is it?"
"Yes...well no, I guess not--hee hee." Susan had just felt a fingernail circle her navel.
Ellen had been growing impatient because the tickling had abated somewhat. She wanted
her sister to struggle like she had earlier. "Let me have a shot at her, Mom."
"Hush. I'm busy tickling my little girl."
"Yeah, Ellen," Susan said like a little girl would. "Hee, hee, hee." Some fingers had just
stroked up and down her sides.
This continued for a good while, her mother giving Susan light intermittent tickles on her
sides and stomach. "Oh, yes, my little girl is so ticklish, yes she is."
Each time she was tickled, Susan pulled at the ropes and twisted to get away, but her arms
remained securely high over her head and her ankles to the couch legs. She began to
concentrate on the overall experience brought on by her lack of clothing and of the ropes
holding her fast, not just the tickling. She could move within her limitations with reckless
abandon, sometimes thrashing wildly to get loose, sometimes giving a gentle pulls at her
bonds, and sometimes surrendering to the futility of escape and laughing helplessly as
some nails would skitter across her stomach or up and down her sides. This was her
moment, nobody else's. They were only spectators, even her mother only a bit player. It
was she, Susan, who had the power right now. She was the complete center of attention
as she never had been before.
And ironically, the fingernails lightly darting across her helpless scantily-clad body began
to give her a sense of freedom. She squealed and giggled and wiggled without inhibition
like the little girl she now was. This was like a second childhood with her mother tickling
her like she had always wanted to. Her mother touched a fingernail under Susan's arm and
watched her giggle and pull away. As soon as Susan stopped moving, a nail stroked her
other underarm until she moved again.
"Mom!" she giggled. "Stop that!"
"Stop what?" her mother replied as she probed at an underarm and watched her daughter
dodge. It could be as much fun threatening to give a tickle as actually doing it.
"You know what!" She barely escaped another probe at her underarm by moving to the
left as far as she could. "Not there!"
"You must want me to tickle you there, or else you wouldn't have your arms up like that."
Her hand darted out fast enough to connect with the sensitive bare skin before Susan
could move away.
"Ha ha ha," laughed Susan as she shifted to the right. "My arms are up only because
they're tied that way."
"That proves you want me to tickle you there. You agreed to being tied with your arms
up, didn't you?"
"Well...yes."
"I rest my case." At last her mother had won an exercise in logic with Susan. To
celebrate, she gave her another tickle.
"Mom, please!" As Susan dodged, she noticed the computer screen was flashing a
message saying "SUSAN WINS!!!" While she was reading it, she felt a fingernail stroke
her underarm and she jerked away with a squeal. "Time's up, Mom! You can stop now."
Her mother turned and saw the message, and reluctantly stopped. "Well, I guess your
future husband should untie you now."
Mark had not participated in the tickling, but was not worried about missing out at all. He
had already decided she would end up in similar predicaments in the future.
"Future husband?" said the still bound Susan. "I couldn't marry him after tying me up like
this."
"All right," said Mark with a smile. "I'll just leave you there."
"And don't expect us to release you," said her mother.
"Okay, okay, I'll marry you. Just let me down now, will you?"
Smiling, Mark picked up the step ladder, went up to Susan and said, "About our plans to
pick out furniture?"
"Yes?"
He walked behind her and whispered something in her ear.
"No way, Mark!"
He shrugged, said, "Then I guess this will be my only opportunity," and began tickling her
ribs.
"Ha, ha, ha, okay."
"So you agree then do you?" He placed his fingers in Susan's underarms in case she
changed her mind.
"Yes, yes, I agree!"
"Say it then."
"Yes, we'll get a four-poster. Just don't tickle me now." Susan now realized that she was
destined to be tickled for the rest of her life, and there was no escaping it. She looked at
her mother for help, and saw there was only approval at Mark's proposition.
"If she gives you any trouble, Mark," said her mother, "don't hesitate to call me for
advice."
Mark untied her ankles, then climbed the stepladder to release her arms. Susan sighed
with relief as her arms came down and she knew she was safe.
---
The Set-Up
Although the day had been spent innocuously enough on a routine shopping trip with her
sister Ellen, it was a day that Susan now understood she was never to forget, and looking
back on it, she wondered just how she had managed to find herself in the predicament she
was in now, and how she had ended up this way willingly.
The whole thing was so absurd as to be unbelievable, but it was real nonetheless, and the
most frustrating part was that she had fallen into a well-devised trap, and had effectively
burned her bridges behind her while thinking she had been the smart one.
Again they were letting her rest for a few moments, but it was only a matter of time before
they started in on her again. Her chest heaved as she tried to regain her breath before the
next onslaught. How much longer? There was no clock she could see, so she had no idea
how long they had been at it. She had given up trying to get free--her fiance Mark had
done an excellent job with the ropes and had then sat down to enjoy the show. And he
was enjoying it, sitting there on the couch with his shit-eating grin. She wondered how
come he had known how to tie her up so well--she could barely move--but was not sure
she would like the answer.
Earlier that evening, Susan and Ellen had burst into the living room to find their mother
and Mark watching television. "Guess what," Susan gushed, "I just bought the cutest
outfit for the summer. You'll simply love it."
"She balked at first," Susan said, "but I told her that with her figure, it would be a crime
not to buy it."
"That's marvelous, dear, why don't you try it on and model it for us?"
"Oh, I couldn't possibly do it now, it's so skimpy."
"Sounds nice," said Mark, giving her a wink.
"Nonsense," said her mother. "We're family, and you're practically married to Mark
already."
"Well, all right. Just give me a minute." And with that, she bounded out of the room to
change.
Susan was a lively, gorgeous 24 year-old girl with dark hair, blue eyes, and a figure most
girls would kill for. She was blessed with a rare combination of beauty and brains, but the
only problem was that she was quite aware of both attributes and never passed up an
opportunity to flaunt them. Ellen was ten pounds heavier, and about five IQ points less
intelligent, still quite smart and attractive, but a lifetime of being Susan's younger sister left
her a much more humble person. Their mother understood this all perfectly, but was
never able to quell Susan's irritating ability to act like she was always just a
little smarter than those around her. It didn't take Susan long to return in an outfit that
caused Mark to stand up and whistle, then stop in embarrassment as he remembered her
mother was in the same room.
Susan was attired in a green miniskirt and a strapless bikini top that seemed to be custom
designed for her. The outfit showed off her slim waist, her cleavage, and her shapely legs.
Her shoulders and collarbones were flawless, as if designed by an artist. "I'm so
embarrassed," she said unconvincingly, as she gracefully spun around like a model.
"You look simply beautiful," said her mother. "Ellen was absolutely right to talk you into
buying that."
"Why, thank you." Susan accepted the compliment like it was her due.
"You're very welcome. Have a seat. We were just watching Howard Stern."
Susan sat down on a couch between Mark and Ellen and saw that Howard, dressed in a
Santa Claus hat, had three girls tied to chairs in his studio.
"What's this all about?" giggled Susan.
"It's his Christmas show. They're having a contest."
Then Howard began tickling one of the girls on the ribs as lettering saying, "Tickle
Timer," appeared on the screen. Numbers were counting down as he tickled the girls.
"Yeah, Susan," said her sister. "The girls win money if they can last long enough without
divulging the secret word."
"What's so hard about that? It's only a couple of minutes. Look's like easy money to me."
"I don't know about that. What do you think, Mark?"
"I'd like to be Howard right now."
Susan gave him a light punch on the arm and said, "You would!"
"He's not going about it the right way," said her mother. "For one thing, they're not tied
very well. And with the exception of the one girl, they're wearing too much."
Ellen giggled and said, "Then Susan wouldn't last ten seconds dressed like that."
"Oh, I could too. How come you know so much about it, Mom?"
"We used to do it as kids all the time. We'd have contests to see who could last the
longest before saying 'Uncle.' The other kids had to buy the winner ice cream. I was the
best tickler of all, if I do say so myself."
"What was the record?" asked Ellen.
"Your Aunt Debbie once lasted an hour."
Susan was confused by this revelation. "I don't remember you ever tickling us as kids."
"Good riddance," said Ellen.
"That's because I enjoyed it so much, I didn't feel right about tickling my own daughters."
"You didn't tickle us because you liked it? That doesn't make any sense at all."
"No, I suppose not."
Another girl had survived Howard's tickling to win a cash prize "Easy money," Susan said
with a hint of contempt. Howard was starting in on the third girl, but after a moment,
Susan realized nobody had answered her. Instead they were all looking at her
speculatively. Feeling vaguely uncomfortable in her scanty clothing, and being intelligent
enough to see what was on their minds, she said, "I feel a draft in here," and started to
get up.
Mark and Ellen each grabbed a bare arm, and they pulled her back down on the couch.
"Oh, no you don't," said Susan, shaking her head emphatically. "You're not doing that to
me."
"You're quite right," said her mother. "She'd never be able to take it."
"I'm not falling for that one, Mom."
Ellen spoke up. "Why not? You were just complaining that Mom never tickled us."
"I wasn't complaining."
"It sounded like it to me," said Mark.
"You stay out of this."
"Let's have a vote," said Ellen. "I vote yes."
"So do I," agreed Mark.
"I say no, and my vote counts the most."
"I say yes," said their mother.
"For a lousy bowl of ice cream? Not likely."
"No, we'd make the stakes a little higher. Like, maybe that dress you saw at Broadway
last week...."
"That cost a fortune, Mom," said Susan.
"There's really no risk involved. You could never beat Aunt Debbie's record."
"Oh, yeah?" said Susan, her nimble mind looking for a sure-fire plan to win. There wasn't
much of anything she wouldn't do for new clothes, especially expensive ones.
"You couldn't possibly withstand that much tickling, Susan. You're not used to it."
"Okay, I'll do it, but only if you'll get that nice purse we saw there too."
"I don't know," she said doubtfully.
"See, you're not sure I won't last."
"Okay, it's a deal."
"Good," said Ellen, "but saying 'uncle' is a bit lame. I can write a quick computer program
on the laptop to accept a password that Susan can enter, and then it will count down for
an hour. If Susan doesn't divulge the password before the count if finished, she wins.
Otherwise she loses. It will only take me a minute."
"Excellent suggestion," said her mother. "There's some clothesline in a kitchen drawer.
I'll go get it."
"Clothesline?" Susan said uneasily.
Ellen giggled as she typed at a laptop on the coffee table, and said, "Mark can tie you up,
Susan. Doesn't that sound like fun?" She giggled again at the thought.
"Oh, yeah. Just great," she answered sarcastically.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Mark said happily.
Ellen finished just as her mother returned with a mess of clothesline which she tossed to
Mark.
Ellen stood up from the laptop. "Okay just type in a password. We'll get it out of you
shortly."
"Oh, yeah?" That wasn't going to happen, thought Susan who already knew how to win
for sure. She sat at the laptop and read the text, "Enter password." They were so sure of
themselves, but Susan was going to show them. She looked away from the keyboard and
pressed a few random keys. Then she hit the return key and saw, "Password accepted."
They couldn't get a password if she didn't know it herself.
"Tie her hands together in front of her, Mark."
"Gladly. Come on, Susan, give me your hands."
Reluctantly, Susan put her wrists together and held them out to Mark, who wrapped the
clothesline neatly around her proffered wrists several times. This wasn't so bad, she
thought, as he tied the ends together in a square knot. Heck, it was even kind of fun.
"Okay, where should I sit?"
"You're not going to be in a chair," said her mother.
Mark then took another, longer piece of clothesline and tied it around the rope between
her wrists, leaving two lengths of several feet. This made the binding a little tighter; there
was no way she could easily work her self free without using her teeth.
"Then where will I be, on the floor?"
"See that beam, Mark?" Her mother pointed to an oak beam that connected two walls
near a corner.
"Yes."
"Tie her wrists to it, as high as you can." Near the ceiling, each end of the beam
connected solidly to a wall at a forty five degree angle. On top of it were several potted
plants. Three corners of the room had such beams, but the one her mother wanted was
above two couches, which sat at ninety degrees to each other. "You can move that small
table out of the way. There's a stepladder in the hall closet, if you'll be so kind to get it."
"My pleasure."
Susan was only beginning to appreciate what they intended to do, and was mortified at the
thought. After watching Howard Stern with the three bound girls, she had assumed she
would also be in a chair with her wrists tied behind her, or to the armrests. But they
planned to tie her arms over her head, which was a whole different story. And dressed the
way she was, her bare underarms would be hopelessly exposed. She shuddered at the
thought. Even the slightest touch to her underarms drove her crazy.
Mark returned with the stepladder and moved the table out of the way. Then he led her to
the corner by pulling on the long piece of clothesline. "This way, my dear," he said as they
led her to where the table had been, just beneath the beam. He turned her around so she
was facing the room, and climbed the stepladder, still holding onto the clothesline. When
Mark tried to pull her arms up, she resisted, keeping them tightly clamped to her sides.
"Come on, Susan, don't be shy," said her mother.
"Yeah, Susan," said Ellen, get those arms up so Mark can finish.
Susan gave in and let her bare arms be pulled up, involuntarily shuddering at the
knowledge of what this was for. He wrapped each length in opposite directions several
times around the beam, then tied a sturdy knot on top, leaving her arms tightly secured
high above her head.
What have I got myself into? she thought desperately.
Mark stepped down and stood in front of her, obviously enjoying her predicament. "Are
you all right, girl?"
"Just fine," she said sarcastically.
"Her legs too Mark...yes that's good."
Mark tied some more clothesline around a slender ankle and pulled it toward a couch leg
and secured it tightly. Susan gasped as he did the job on the other ankle, attaching it to
the other couch. The result was that the hapless Susan was tightly stretched in an inverted
Y between the overhead beam and the two couches.
Except for being able to twist her body a little, she could barely move.
Susan looked up and saw her bare arms both tightly secured to the beam and wiggled her
hands to test her bonds, but there was definitely no way she could get loose. Then she
looked down and saw her legs were no better off. She looked at each person in the room
in turn, and saw that each held a bemused expression as they watched her helplessness.
How did a girl maintain her dignity like this? she wondered, and realized she was blushing.
What they saw was mostly bare skin, from her bound ankles to her sleek bare legs, past
her miniskirt to her flat bare midriff, her chest and cleavage, raising up and down with her
slightly accelerated breathing, the smooth hollows of her underarms, her arms and her
bound wrists. Her hands just hung there limply, as if she already knew the futility of
escape.
Susan fought down a panic attack. A girl who seldom stayed still very long, she was
unaccustomed to this utter helplessness. She had never been tied up before. It only took
a few seconds to feel an itch on her back, and her arm automatically tried to move down
to scratch it. She was tempted to ask someone to scratch it for her, but knew what that
would lead to.
Something was gnawing at the back of her mind, adding to her unease. It was too easy
the way they had talked her into this. One minute they were watching Howard Stern, the
next Mark was tying her up. Susan glanced at the television and saw that one of the
bound girls was being pushed down a hallway and into an elevator. Then she knew what
was wrong.
The VCR play light was on! And she knew she had been set up.
"You taped this, didn't you!"
"Why yes, we did," said her mother, who had her back to Susan and was getting
something out of a drawer in a small table. When she turned around, Susan saw several
feathers in her hand. Her mouth went dry at the thought.
"You planned this whole thing out! All of you! Let me go NOW!"
Her mother looked startled at the thought of Susan giving up so soon. "Well, okay. Mark
will untie you. Just tell us the password."
"Forget the damned password. You all conned me, so the deal is non-binding."
Ellen burst out laughing. "Non-binding? It looks to me like you're bound pretty well.
You should see yourself."
"Yes," agreed Mark. "She really is in a bind."
Her mother set the feathers on the coffee table and started filing her nails. "Just give me a
minute, Susan, while I make sure my nails are smooth and won't scratch you." She looked
at her desperate daughter and smiled. "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right with you."
"Very funny. And you Ellen, you did seem awfully determined I buy this outfit."
"Yes, Sister. I had to get you into the best tickle suit I could."
"Tickle suit?" said her mother. "I rather like that name."
Susan saw that the computer had "PAUSED" in flashing red letters. "Isn't your program
supposed to be counting the time?"
"Yes, but we're not tickling you yet," said her mother.
"I'm getting impatient, Mom. Can I try the feathers on her? Please?"
"Well, okay. Work on her back while I finish my nails."
Ellen pressed the space bar on the laptop to set the timer running, stepped behind Susan,
and ran both feathers up Susan's bare back, one on each side, and was rewarded by an
immediate twitch. With circular motions, she worked her way up and down Susan's back
and delightedly heard a giggle and more twitching.
"Ellen, stop that, will you?"
Ellen giggled also and moved the feathers to Susan's sides, which brought more giggles
and further protests.
"Why, hee hee, are you all doing this to me? Why?"
"Well, Susan," explained her mother, who had stopped doing her nails to watch Susan's
torment, "we were all watching Howard Stern a couple days ago when Ellen said, 'That's
exactly what Susan needs, a good tickling.' I immediately agreed, of course."
"But why, Mom? Hee hee. Will you please stop that, Ellen?" The feathers were working
up her spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily. The itch she had felt earlier had faded
into insignificance. God, it was getting annoying! Ellen moved down to the back of
Susan's legs, running the feathers from her bound ankles to the hem of her miniskirt. Her
legs jerked, but could not escape the damned feathers.
"This is fun, Mom."
"Fun for you, maybe. Hee hee."
Her mother set down the nail file and came over to Susan, who recoiled before her mother
was even within range. She wiggled her fingers at Susan and was rewarded by a shriek
before she even touched her. The psychological part of tickling was a large part of the
technique. "You need a lesson in humility, Susan. You treat the rest of us as if we were
dumb, and it's time you learned otherwise."
"I, hee hee, do not."
"Yes, you do. You can get an A without studying, and do the New York Times
crossword without a dictionary--you're definitely smart--and we're all very proud of you,
but the problem is that you are proud of yourself also and think everyone else is stupid.
The catch is that you're predictable."
"I am not predictable."
With one hand, her mother gently stroked her nails once across Susan's bare midriff.
Susan shrieked and pulled back as far as her bonds would let her. "Yes, you're
predictable. After Ellen's comment that you needed a good tickling, we worked on
ideas about how to get you to agree to it. It was remarkably easy. You're there
voluntarily. Nobody lied to you or forced you into it."
"Yeah," said Ellen. "We may not be as smart as you, but look who's barely clothed and
tied up right now."
"How could you do this to me, Mark?"
"They called me up and asked me if I wanted to see you get tickled. How could I refuse?
Besides, I have to stay on the good side of my future in-laws."
"Mom, please let me go."
"Tell me the password."
"I can't," moaned Susan.
Her mother gently scratched Susan's sides, which caused her to laugh and convulse. "The
password, Susan."
"I, ha ha ha, I can't, ha ha, my God, stop, ha ha it." She tried to ignore it, to think of other
things, but it was impossible. And this was only her sides.
Her mother continued for about a minute, then stopped. Susan, her chest heaving, hung
her head and said, "I can't tell you--no listen first--I don't know it. Ahhhh, ha ha ha...."
The nails were on her stomach now, moving around her navel. For Susan it was agony.
She jerked like a puppet, lurching in various directions with as far as the ropes would let
her, which wasn't very far at all. Ellen had stopped with the feathers, but Susan didn't
even notice it. The fingers on her abdomen was a hundred times more intense. Eventually
they stopped, and Susan fell silent.
"Listen a minute, will you?" she gasped, trying to raise her head. "I didn't look at the
keys."
"Oh, my. That was very, very unwise," said her mother..
"But it was predictable," said Ellen. "Didn't you think it strange that the program didn't
ask for a password confirmation? We suspected you might do something like that.
Should you tell her the rest, Mom?"
"Sure, why not?" Her mother pressed the space bar, causing the PAUSED sign to appear
again. Out of her purse she took a piece of paper and held it up for Susan to see. It was a
Broadway gift certificate for a thousand dollars. "I won this in a raffle last week. I'm
going to take us all on a shopping trip. The money will cover that dress, and a lot more
too."
"Oh, my God. Will you just let me go?"
"The password, Susan." Her mother shook her head. "Actually I'm glad. I sincerely miss
my tickling days as a child, and believe me, I'm going to make the best of this
opportunity." With that, her mother pressed the space bar and reached around to Susan's
back and placed one nail from each index finger on Susan's back just above her bra strap.
Slowly she traced around towards her sides.
"No," moaned Susan, who stiffened in terror.
When the fingers made the transition from Susan's back to her tickle zone, she didn't even
try to jerk away. Instead, started laughing and just slumped with her head thrown back,
dangling by her bound wrists. The fingers made their way around to Susan's chest and
met at her cleavage, then quickly returned to her sides, still above the bra strap. This time
all fingers started working, scratching in various patterns.
For Susan, everything centered around the agony in her sides and her helplessness.
"Hahahaha...arrrrgghhhhh. Stop ha ha. Nooooooo." She was barely able to say an entire
word, much less a sentence. So intense was the experience, she didn't immediately notice
when it had stopped. She wanted to say something, but was too out of breath. Besides, it
wouldn't have done any good anyway. They were going to tickle her and that was all
there was to it.
The computer was paused again when her mother said, "Tell me Susan, what are you
wearing now?"
"A miniskirt and a bikini top." She had managed again to stand on her legs, easing the
tension on her wrists.
"What else?"
"Sandals." Susan was still dazed, and her tone of voice showed it.
"But what else?"
"Nothing."
"Yes you are, Susan."
"What?" she whined.
"What's that around your wrists and ankles?"
"Clothesline."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means I'm tied up, obviously."
"How are you tied?"
"My arms are tied over my head to the beam, my legs to the couches."
Her mother pressed the space bar and placed one nail smack dab in the center of Susan's
left underarm, and was rewarded by a scream. "It means I'm going to tickle you under
your arms and there is nothing, but nothing, you can do about it." Susan didn't know that
Ellen had told their mother how ticklish Susan was under her arms.
"No, not that, Mom. Please, not that."
The fear of tickling was often worse than the tickling itself, which is why her mother was
drawing it out. "Yes, Susan." She tapped the one nail in emphasis, causing Susan to
gasp.
"This is torture, you know that don't you?"
"Of course I know that. The whole point of this was to get you to divulge a simple
password, which you don't know." She began moving the one nail in circular patterns in
Susan's underarm. The sounds from Susan went beyond laughing; hysterics was more like
it.
Susan watched the one nail gently tracing patterns on her underarm, while her mother's
other hand held her bare shoulder. She was unable to stop the insane sounds coming up
from deep within her. Try to think of something else, she thought to herself. Anything.
The new dress, that was it. She would get a new dress out of this, but that had lost its
appeal for the moment--the dress was sleeveless....
Now there were two nails, and all thoughts centered on the agony in her left underarm.
"Noooooo," she screamed, and madly tried to pull herself down from the beam. For a
moment her feet left the floor, but the rope holding her ankles prevented her from being
able to pull herself up far enough to protect her underarms. Then all four fingernails were
working their magic, and Susan again went limp and felt her sanity start to slip as she
screamed, shrieked, moaned, and made other sounds which are difficult to describe.
From the back of her mind she heard Ellen, who was still behind her, say, "Let me try this,
Mom."
"Okay, dear. Step around her and you can take her right side."
"No, Ellen, please don't do it too."
As Ellen stepped around her, she pinched Susan's sides and was rewarded by a shout.
"What do I do, Mom?"
"Try this." Her mother ran her fingernail from Susan's bound wrist, down her bare left
arm, and didn't stop until it reached the top of her bra strap. As it traveled through her
underarm, there was a predictable shout and her entire body jerked.
"Okay," said Ellen, and repeated the maneuver on Susan's right arm, with the same
reaction. "That was fun, Mom. Let's try it at the same time."
Again, the nails traveled down Susan's bare arms, this time in unison, and the shriek was
louder as they stroked her unprotected underarms. As if reading each other's thoughts,
Susan's mother and sister both stroked both underarms furiously, causing Susan to emit
more unearthly noises and jerk convulsively within the confines of her bondage. This went
on for several minutes until Susan's cries and thrashing became weak.
Then they let her rest. Susan sobbed for a minute, but then some pride deep inside her
made her stop. With anguish, she looked at Mark and said, "Do you like seeing me like
this?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do."
To Ellen, she said, "Do you think this is funny?"
"You're the one who's been laughing so hard." Ellen picked up a glass of ice water she
had been drinking and held it in both hands as if she were about to take another sip.
"Some sister you are, helping to get me into this."
With an evil grin, Ellen set down the glass, jumped up, and dug her cold fingers into
Susan's bare ribs and listened to the laughing and felt the thrashing under her probing
fingers. "What kind of sister am I?"
"Ha ha--the best--ha--sister in the--ha--world."
"I'm glad you think so, Susan." Ellen released her sister's ribs and sat back down. "Hey,
Mom, I think she's ready for some more."
"Not yet, Ellen, let her rest and think about it a little longer."
Susan could see Ellen's mind working, could read her thoughts actually, when she again
picked up the dewy glass and looked her way. "Ellen? No, Ellen, that's not fair."
Ellen pressed the space bar and poured the icy water over Susan's bare chest, and down
her back. Susan gasped as the freezing water touched her bare skin. It was like taking a
cold shower, only worse. "You need some cooling off, I think." Ellen poured some on
Susan's bare midriff and some more on her chest. When the glass had only ice, Ellen
tugged at the top of one cup of Susan's bra.
"No, Ellen," begged Susan, but Ellen poured half the ice in the bra's cup, where it landed
against one nipple. She poured the rest in the other cup. Susan twisted and shook, trying
to shake the ice out, but it was no good. It felt both hot and cold at the same time and
there was nothing she could do about it.
"Now, Ellen, that wasn't very nice," said their mother. "Creative maybe, but not very
nice."
"I couldn't resist, Mom."
Susan felt her nipples going numb as the ice melted and ran down her abdomen in thin
rivulets and soaked the top of her miniskirt. At least the computer program was counting
the long seconds toward her eventual freedom, and at least they weren't tickling her at the
moment.
Susan was aware of her beauty and had always liked to wear scanty clothing to show her
lovely body off, especially when the people around her were fully dressed. It gave her a
tingly, sensual feeling knowing that everyone--both male and female--was aware of her
presence. But this was different. The bare skin she enjoyed showing so much had become
a liability because they were taking advantage of her exposed body and were torturing her.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
Nothing.
But even being tied up like this didn't mean she wasn't still in full possession of her vanity.
Susan looked at Mark and said, "How do I look?"
"A little disheveled, but still beautiful. That's a nice pose, by the way."
"I think she's recovered enough for some more tickling, Mom," said Ellen.
Fear struck at Susan's heart, but then she started to analyze the situation. Just what was
so bad about being tickled? It wasn't like they were beating her, in fact they were being
very gentle about it. Her mother had even filed her nails so she wouldn't scratch her. And
it didn't feel altogether unpleasant. It was the helplessness that scared her, especially being
tied up with her bare underarms exposed. She just felt so...so vulnerable like this. She
twisted slightly in a vain attempt to get loose, moaning quietly, her wrists still firmly
trussed to the beam. She was completely helpless and at their mercy. Maybe the best way
do deal with it was to just give in to it completely and not try to fight it.
"My back itches. Will you scratch it please?"
"Of course, dear." Her mother stepped around Susan and gently gave her stomach a tickle
as she did.
"No, Mom," Susan giggled, "My back."
"Okay. Where does it itch?"
"My right shoulder blade."
"How's that?" asked her mother as she scratched Susan's bare back.
"A little to the left, please. There that's better."
"That feels good, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"You're still my little girl."
"I am not your little girl!"
That statement caused her mother to reach around Susan's waist and tickle her stomach
instead.
"Ha ha ha ha nooooooo..."
"Are you my little girl?"
"No!"
This time her mother worked up and down Susan's sides for a minute, enjoying the
sensation of her daughter's laughing and struggling under her fingertips. When she
stopped, she left her hands on Susan's sides and repeated the question.
Susan was out of breath again, and very tempted to say yes, she was indeed her mother's
little girl, but thought what the heck, let's have a battle of wills. "No, I'm not."
Her mother moved her hands upwards until they were right below Susan's bare underarms,
and then gave her a brief tickle.
"What was that?"
"No, I'm not your little girl."
"Are you sure? You know what's going to happen if you say no."
Susan hesitated, then said, "I'm not a little girl...."
The room was filled with Susan's screams and hysterical laughter as her mother
unmercifully scratched her daughter's bare underarms. The sensations caused her entire
body to jerk, and despite her knowledge that she was helpless, she still tried to pull her
wrists free as the fingernails worked their way up and down, back and forth, and in
various circular patterns in the hollows of her underarms. Her face was red and contorted,
her voice shrieking and gasping and begging. Behind her, her mother was saying
"Kootchy Kootchy Koo" repeatedly in her ear. Eventually the fingernails stopped moving.
Her mother held the sides of Susan's shoulders with her palms, with the fingernails still in
place. Even the immobile fingernails were torture for poor Susan.
"What do you have to say now, Susan? Are you my little girl now?"
Finding courage deep within her, she said, "No."
Again the torture began, and after a half minute of shrieking and twisting as the nails
worked on her underarms, Susan said, "Ok--ha ha--ay."
"What was that?"
"Hahaha, okay."
The nails stopped.
"I'm...you're little...girl," Susan managed to gasp.
"That's more like it," her mother said as she removed her fingernails.
Susan let out a sigh of relief as she felt the nails leave her underarms; her mother walked
around Susan and faced her. Susan felt ridiculous and still nervous standing with her arms
tied to the beam in this scanty outfit, knowing how her bare skin presented an irresistible
target.
"Susan."
"Yes, Mom?"
"I bathed my little girl, nursed her when she was a baby, changed her diapers, cleaned her
skinned knees....But I never tickled her. So now I'm going to make up for lost time."
What that, she raised her fingernails like claws.
"No," she said weakly, knowing this was coming.
"Yes, I'm going to tickle my little girl." Her mother gently scratched Susan's stomach and
stopped when she giggled. "But not so intensely this time. I just want to hear my little
girl giggle." She punctuated the word "giggle" with a tweak on Susan's sides.
Susan laughed as her mother gently prodded her sides and stomach. This lighter tickling
wasn't anything like her earlier torture.
"Now, that's not so bad, is it?"
"Yes...well no, I guess not--hee hee." Susan had just felt a fingernail circle her navel.
Ellen had been growing impatient because the tickling had abated somewhat. She wanted
her sister to struggle like she had earlier. "Let me have a shot at her, Mom."
"Hush. I'm busy tickling my little girl."
"Yeah, Ellen," Susan said like a little girl would. "Hee, hee, hee." Some fingers had just
stroked up and down her sides.
This continued for a good while, her mother giving Susan light intermittent tickles on her
sides and stomach. "Oh, yes, my little girl is so ticklish, yes she is."
Each time she was tickled, Susan pulled at the ropes and twisted to get away, but her arms
remained securely high over her head and her ankles to the couch legs. She began to
concentrate on the overall experience brought on by her lack of clothing and of the ropes
holding her fast, not just the tickling. She could move within her limitations with reckless
abandon, sometimes thrashing wildly to get loose, sometimes giving a gentle pulls at her
bonds, and sometimes surrendering to the futility of escape and laughing helplessly as
some nails would skitter across her stomach or up and down her sides. This was her
moment, nobody else's. They were only spectators, even her mother only a bit player. It
was she, Susan, who had the power right now. She was the complete center of attention
as she never had been before.
And ironically, the fingernails lightly darting across her helpless scantily-clad body began
to give her a sense of freedom. She squealed and giggled and wiggled without inhibition
like the little girl she now was. This was like a second childhood with her mother tickling
her like she had always wanted to. Her mother touched a fingernail under Susan's arm and
watched her giggle and pull away. As soon as Susan stopped moving, a nail stroked her
other underarm until she moved again.
"Mom!" she giggled. "Stop that!"
"Stop what?" her mother replied as she probed at an underarm and watched her daughter
dodge. It could be as much fun threatening to give a tickle as actually doing it.
"You know what!" She barely escaped another probe at her underarm by moving to the
left as far as she could. "Not there!"
"You must want me to tickle you there, or else you wouldn't have your arms up like that."
Her hand darted out fast enough to connect with the sensitive bare skin before Susan
could move away.
"Ha ha ha," laughed Susan as she shifted to the right. "My arms are up only because
they're tied that way."
"That proves you want me to tickle you there. You agreed to being tied with your arms
up, didn't you?"
"Well...yes."
"I rest my case." At last her mother had won an exercise in logic with Susan. To
celebrate, she gave her another tickle.
"Mom, please!" As Susan dodged, she noticed the computer screen was flashing a
message saying "SUSAN WINS!!!" While she was reading it, she felt a fingernail stroke
her underarm and she jerked away with a squeal. "Time's up, Mom! You can stop now."
Her mother turned and saw the message, and reluctantly stopped. "Well, I guess your
future husband should untie you now."
Mark had not participated in the tickling, but was not worried about missing out at all. He
had already decided she would end up in similar predicaments in the future.
"Future husband?" said the still bound Susan. "I couldn't marry him after tying me up like
this."
"All right," said Mark with a smile. "I'll just leave you there."
"And don't expect us to release you," said her mother.
"Okay, okay, I'll marry you. Just let me down now, will you?"
Smiling, Mark picked up the step ladder, went up to Susan and said, "About our plans to
pick out furniture?"
"Yes?"
He walked behind her and whispered something in her ear.
"No way, Mark!"
He shrugged, said, "Then I guess this will be my only opportunity," and began tickling her
ribs.
"Ha, ha, ha, okay."
"So you agree then do you?" He placed his fingers in Susan's underarms in case she
changed her mind.
"Yes, yes, I agree!"
"Say it then."
"Yes, we'll get a four-poster. Just don't tickle me now." Susan now realized that she was
destined to be tickled for the rest of her life, and there was no escaping it. She looked at
her mother for help, and saw there was only approval at Mark's proposition.
"If she gives you any trouble, Mark," said her mother, "don't hesitate to call me for
advice."
Mark untied her ankles, then climbed the stepladder to release her arms. Susan sighed
with relief as her arms came down and she knew she was safe.
