ticklishbod20
Verified
- Joined
- Apr 28, 2001
- Messages
- 137
- Points
- 16
I hope you guys like this!
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Her day started like any other.
Standing at five foot nothing, a twenty seven year old Christine checked out her blouse in her office bathroom. The black silk was elegant yet completely businesslike. She reflected on this while touching up her very minimal makeup.
Her black pants hugged her curvy bottom. Her perky black shoes finished off the look that WAS Christine -- a woman who had successfully climbed the ladder at her entertainment production company.
Her light olive complexion stared back at her from the mirror. Noticing that she had a few minutes before her first meeting, Christine let her mind wander back to her beginnings at her career.
Christine had started off as a little fireball who could organize her way out of a tornado. Fresh out of Toronto College, she had used her sheer will and knowledge of the industry to land a job as a production assistant. Once in that role, she had caught the eye of upper management as someone who could solve problems and make things happen.
As the years had passed, she had also acquired an acumen for the production of wildly successful animated content. Her tiny stature belied her ability to make people do what she needed them to do.
Male coworkers were initially struck by the beauty of her face, always. Christine thought of this and smiled while checking her teeth in the mirror. She knew this and used this to her own advantage. Almost immediately, she was able to make men (and women) do what needed to be done on a deadline.
Christine wrapped up her brief auto-laudatory moment and left the bathroom to attend her meeting. Her legs moved crisply, like her mind.
Though this had started out as a day like any other, today was the day Christine would -- as Head Producer -- begin production on a very top secret project. So top secret that entire departments at the company were kept in the dark about it, only being told what they needed to know to carry out their own compartmentalized tasks.
This was a big deal. It would most certainly lead to the cornering of the animated shorts market in Toronto. It would lead to bigger projects and potentially establish the company as the leader in North America. Christine's tummy fluttered with excitement.
But it had to stay secret. The idea was so innovative that just telling someone about it would ruin its impact.
The morning meetings finished. Back at her desk around noon, Christine called home to her husband.
"Hi darling honeybuckets, how are you?" Todd asked. Ironically, his greeting was almost automatic.
"Oh I'm fine, I've just had the most interesting morning..." Christine started, excitedly wanting to relay the big developments of the day. She sat with her right leg crossed over her left. Her right foot bobbed up and down with the same vigor that she had in her voice.
If Christine had had eyes in the back of her head, she would have noticed the mailroom guy staring at her and listening. But she didn't notice anything.
"Super," interrupted Todd. He sounded half asleep. "Well just be sure to pick up cauliflower on the way home." He hung up.
Christine scrunched up her nose. She loved her husband. He made her happy. But he didn't seem to listen to her.
And he wasn't... the most titillating of lovers. He paid attention to her. But his idea of hot sex was doing it in the missionary position with the thermostat turned up.
Christine didn't let herself think about this for too long. He was good to her and she would be good to him.
She had met him when she was younger and more on the insecure side. But he had been there for her after an ugly breakup. So she trusted him. And she would devote her life to him.
Even if he didn't... well, Christine couldn't and wouldn't think about *that*. Not at home with her husband who loved her and certainly not on this very big day.
*That*, of course, was a curiosity Christine had that she wouldn't let herself think about.
*That* was a desire Christine had that had remained unfulfilled. She had pushed it to the back of her brain over the years. Her career and her husband had taken up her thoughts and her drive.
*That*, which Christine had locked up in a box deep in her head, was her screaming wailing lust for being tickle tortured on her underarms. It wasn't something she had ever dreamed of explaining to her boyfriends. It wasn't something she could even think about without turning red in the face. She certainly couldn't tell Todd about it.
But it was her own dark sexual fetish. And the more successful she was in her career, the more successful she was in continuing her own marriage, the less she could even dream of sharing this with anyone.
It was a dark thought she would have late at night when her husband was asleep. With the pretense of working, she would peruse video after video of women having the shit tickled out of their underarms. By men. Their suffering is what she craved and what made her orgasm.
But she couldn't share this. Once, during lovemaking with her milquetoast husband, she had asked him to place his hands in her underarms.
His response had been a bored "Why?"
She couldn't say "Why" and so had simply shrugged it off and given up.
So she would rely on videos to satisfy her secret urge.
Christine snapped back to reality. Instinctively she pulled her arms closer to her body. Her work secret she could guard from others.
Her own private secret she had to guard from herself.
The afternoon continued the same as the morning. Fast-paced highly productive goal oriented meetings. Her coworkers and other heads of departments were impressed by the speed with which she dissected and resolved problems.
Around 6 o'clock, Christine stopped work in corner office. I was time to go home and unwind over dinner with Todd.
In the unseasonably warm Toronto spring (it was 10 degrees), Christine hailed a cab.
"Lawrence Park, please". Still somewhat in work mode, Christine took out her iPad and started jotting down little reminders for herself.
"Of course!" The taxi driver responded politely.
Not paying attention to her surroundings, Christine immersed herself in planning the rest of her week.
She didn't notice that the lush greens of Lawrence Park didn't materialize. She didn't notice that the neighborhood was in a place she had never been.
She just didn't notice anything around her.
Not until the taxi driver pulled into a garage and everything became very dark.
"Hey! Where are we, eh? This doesn't look like Lawrence Park." Christine wasn't afraid but she was slightly confused about what was occurring.
Still she didn't notice the masked man standing next to the cab. Not until he opened her door and motioned towards her with his hands.
It was then that she felt very, very bad about her surroundings.
"Oh my god," she gasped. She could see a gun in the masked man's belt.
"Not God. Call me Mark," replied the man with the mask. He grabbed her wrist and slowly but firmly guided her out of the cab. The driver remained silent.
"What is going on?!" Standing outside the cab in the dark dank room, she stared up at him, shouting in indignation. He wasn't tall but he still towered over her at five feet seven inches. The ceilings were even taller, as if this had been an industrial warehouse. This added to how small Christine felt.
Everyone towered over little Christine, Christine reflected.
Fear set in.
Mark leaned in "Don't make a sound and you won't get hurt. If you work with me I'll have you back to your home with your husband by midnight." Not convinced of this but certain that she had no other choice, she cooperated.
Still dressed as a high-powered producer, she was led down a long hallway by masked Mark through what felt like a deserted yet climate-controlled factory.
She heard a heavy door close and a bolt being thrown behind her.
"Where am I?" was answered by Mark sitting her down on what looked like a cushioned bench, except there was no back. He fitted two padded cuffs onto her wrists.
Mark flicked a switch. The new, padded restraints suddenly pulled her arms above her head.
"What are you doing to me?" was answered by the masked man fastening a set of stocks around her ankles and tightening them to the couch.
He took off her black shoes. Slowly. Deliberately.
Out of instinct, Christine wiggled her shoeless hosed feet. Even through the nylons the dark red toenails were very visible on Christine's size five soles.
Fear continued to bubble in Christine's tummy.
Still the man was not talking.
Looking around the room, Christine noted that it was windowless. It was devoid of any furniture save for the padded bench and stocks and a gigantic television screen.
Nervously Christine tried to wriggle out of her wrist restraints.
Silently, Mark approached the tiny bound lady with scissors while explaining "Hold still, I'm not going to hurt you."
Christine held still.
Mark cut off her black silk blouse (which really bothered Christine, possibly more than being restrained).
She felt fresh air hit her exposed underarms. Involuntarily, Christine shivered. She didn't feel comfortable being made vulnerable like this, no less by a masked man.
He cut off her pants. He left her in her black bra, black panties and black hose.
"I'll give you anything you want. I have money. Lots of it. I can give you a small fortune," Christine pleaded. A controlled edge was in her voice. She was used to being in control. And now she was trying to get it back from this man.
Still wordlessly, the man walked behind Christine. Unable to fully turn around, she heard him sit down.
"I represent a client who is very aware of what your company is about to produce. My client needs to know everything there is to know about it. Tell us what we want to know."
Christine's mind raced a millions kilometers a minute. She suddenly knew exactly what this was about.
This was about her show. Her baby. This was about giving up information about something that would make her and her company famous.
She couldn't do it. She had worked her entire life for this. She couldn't just give this up. Not even to an anonymous asshole who had her tied up.
"I don't know what you are talking about." Christine bit her lip.
She heard Mark fidget behind her. The screen turned on.
"My client understands that this is something that you will not readily agree to. My client wants you to know that we have a secret about you, as well."
On the screen a video suddenly displayed.
Christine's heart dropped into her stomach.
It was a video of a woman, tied down, with her arms restrained over her head, being tickled by a man. It was a video she had watched dozens of times while touching herself late at night. It was something she had never shared with anyone, ever.
And now she was being forced to watch it with her own arms restrained over head, wearing only a bra, panties and hose.
"We've done our research too. We discovered that something about you that none of us expected."
Christine didn't move. She felt a warmth growing in her groin. She couldn't believe this was happening. This was so humiliating to her. This was so private.
Nervously she shifted in her seat. Her naked, bare underarms fully exposed.
On the screen the girl -- who's name was Brooke, Christine remembered -- was completely writhing around in conniptions while *her* masked tickler finger-sodomized her underarms.
"It was truly a surprise to me. I didn't expect to find video after video on your computer of women being tickled." Christine could've crushed a walnut with her butt. She was so nervous. Her private fantasy was being casually deconstructed by this complete stranger.
He sounded so cocky.
The wetness between Christine's legs continued to develop.
Suddenly she felt fingers on her sides.
"Don't!" exclaimed Christine.
"Don't *what*???" Mark was an asshole. Christine could feel fingers, his fingers, just casually resting on her sides.
"Don't do *that*!" Desperation crept into Christine's voice.
"Don't do WHAT???" Christine could hear Mark smiling under the mask.
"Mark I'm married..." Christine whimpered.
His fingers immediately started their work. Ten savages playing her sides like an accordion.
Christine laughed. Christine struggled against her bonds (to no effect, of course).
"If you're so married then why are you enjoying this," said the masked tickler sitting behind Christine.
"Why is this turning you on?" He paused for a moment. Suddenly the screen changed.
It was Christine! It was herself, restrained, looking at herself from face-forward angle of the camera in the room. She could see her bare underarms, her exposed sides with his fingers on them, her soles.
She gasped. She looked so helpless. She was at this man's mercy.
"Christine, ask yourself: why is this turning you on? You are a powerful woman in your job. You are confident, smart, sassy. Can you tell me why being tickle tortured on your sides turns you on?" With that Mark resumed his strumming of Christine's sides.
Invectives poured out of Christine's mouth, interrupted by high gales of laughter. She was getting her clock cleaned.
"And you know what else, little woman?" Mark asked.
Christine didn't answer. She was on another planet of ticklishness. No one had ever tickled her like this before. Not any ex-boyfriend. No one.
"We could mail out copies of this video -- of you being tickle tortured -- to everyone in your work."
Christine came out of her stupor.
"Don't. Please don't. Please please please don't!" True desperation rang out of Christine's voice.
"Call your husband right now and tell him you won't be home until midnight."
"Fine, please fine."
"Act normal."
Mark held a phone to Christine's sweaty face. A familiar voice came on the other side.
"Hello?" Todd sounded bored already.
"Hi sweetie I was just calling to tell you that I've been tied up..."
Christine felt a finger probe in her ribs. Now now, there would be none of that.
"... at work and I won't be home till late tonight. Ok? I'm sorry." The finger eased its pressure.
"Sure." And Todd hung up.
"You're mine until midnight little woman. You could stop all of this if you told me about your new project."
The side strumming resumed for a full minute. Christine laughed heartily from her chest. She kept her eyes on the screen, watching Mark's fingers tickle torture her completely helpless sides. She couldn't look away.
Mark stopped as abruptly as he had started.
"Anything to say?"
Christine shook her head. She couldn't throw her career down the drain. She couldn't stand the tickling. It was too much. It was unbearable. But she couldn't just give up what she had worked for her whole life.
She could see Mark's fingers resting on her sides again. Then they edged off.
Mark walked around her, kneeling down in front of the stocks.
Christine took a deep breath. She knew what was coming. Her toes wiggled nervously in anticipation.
Silently, and without warning, he proceeded to tickle the hosed feet.
"Tickle tickle tickle!" the masked asshole said. Like carp out of water, her feet danced and jumped and tried to get away. But her soles were tickle meat for Mark.
And he wasn't even asking her any questions anymore. He was focused entirely on placing his ten little indians on her hosed soles.
"You know I'll have to cut this off too." Handily, Mark produced scissors and unceremoniously cut off the hose. Christine held herself. She knew what was coming.
Air hit her soles.
She would be tickled on her bare feet.
On the screen she saw his fingers start molesting her naked foot bottoms. It was too much. She couldn't take it. She couldn't stand it.
"Please..."
"Please... what...?"
"I can't..." Christine was yelling now.
"Yell louder sweetie. This room is soundproof." Mark was an asshole. Yes he was. Christine hated him so much. As the intensity of the tickling worsened, she cursed his name and the names of all his future descendents. On the screen she could see her soles turn a bright pink, abused from the sensations of his roaming fingernails. She couldn't move her fucking feet.
After an interval of time that Christine couldn't begin to determine, Mark stopped. Again. Abruptly. He paced back to behind Christine and positioned himself with his hands on her ribs. Again.
"Well, there is more. You have a particular fetish within a fetish." He left the rest unsaid. Mark's fingers continued to rest on Christine's sides, as she could see on the screen.
Every now and then one of the fingers would apply a little pressure and provoke her into a little hop.
"All the videos you watch have a very specific theme to them."
Christine froze. She couldn't breathe.
"They were all about women being tickled in a specific place."
Slowly, Christine felt and saw (on the screen) Mark's hands moving up her sides.
"You know that place."
Christine wanted to close her eyes. But she couldn't. All five feet of her tickle tortured helpless self was completely and absolutely drawn to the image of herself, on the screen.
"I'm going to tickle that place." Christine hated Mark so much right now. He sounded so fucking cocky.
"I'm going to tickle your underarms, and YOU.CAN'T.STOP.ME."
Christine gasped.
She could see ten fingers inside her arm hollows. Making independent movements. It was an explosion of sensation that she couldn't stop. Her arms involuntarily tried to draw down, but they couldn't. They were tied down.
Christine was being tickled on her ticklish helpless underarms and all she could do was watch herself.
And she couldn't stop watching herself. No matter how hard she laughed or struggled.
Mark's fingers tortured Christine's underarms without abandon. For ten solid minutes (or so it seemed), they drew figure eights. Then without warning they would each rake a path down the underarms. There was nothing Christine could do to stop it.
She could feel his breath on her the back of her neck.
Christine had never been this aroused her entire life. Her underwear was completely soaked through.
And she laughed like a woman possessed.
Ten minutes into it, Mark stopped.
Christine confessed to everything, spouting all her ideas to Mark, past present and future. She told him everything. The underarms were too much for her. She couldn't take it.
Mark listened.
She heard him dialing.
"The subject continues to resist all manner of interrogation. I'll continue the plan."
He hung up.
"You fucking asshole," Christine said, with equal parts anger and frustrated lust. She was a disheveled angry, aroused mess.
She stared at herself in the screen, her soles bared and secured in stocks, with her masked tormentor behind her. His fingers resting on her underarms. Not moving. Just reminding her of what he would continue to do to her.
"You love this." She hated him so much.
His fingers resumed their work. Christine watched herself suffer on the screen.
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Her day started like any other.
Standing at five foot nothing, a twenty seven year old Christine checked out her blouse in her office bathroom. The black silk was elegant yet completely businesslike. She reflected on this while touching up her very minimal makeup.
Her black pants hugged her curvy bottom. Her perky black shoes finished off the look that WAS Christine -- a woman who had successfully climbed the ladder at her entertainment production company.
Her light olive complexion stared back at her from the mirror. Noticing that she had a few minutes before her first meeting, Christine let her mind wander back to her beginnings at her career.
Christine had started off as a little fireball who could organize her way out of a tornado. Fresh out of Toronto College, she had used her sheer will and knowledge of the industry to land a job as a production assistant. Once in that role, she had caught the eye of upper management as someone who could solve problems and make things happen.
As the years had passed, she had also acquired an acumen for the production of wildly successful animated content. Her tiny stature belied her ability to make people do what she needed them to do.
Male coworkers were initially struck by the beauty of her face, always. Christine thought of this and smiled while checking her teeth in the mirror. She knew this and used this to her own advantage. Almost immediately, she was able to make men (and women) do what needed to be done on a deadline.
Christine wrapped up her brief auto-laudatory moment and left the bathroom to attend her meeting. Her legs moved crisply, like her mind.
Though this had started out as a day like any other, today was the day Christine would -- as Head Producer -- begin production on a very top secret project. So top secret that entire departments at the company were kept in the dark about it, only being told what they needed to know to carry out their own compartmentalized tasks.
This was a big deal. It would most certainly lead to the cornering of the animated shorts market in Toronto. It would lead to bigger projects and potentially establish the company as the leader in North America. Christine's tummy fluttered with excitement.
But it had to stay secret. The idea was so innovative that just telling someone about it would ruin its impact.
The morning meetings finished. Back at her desk around noon, Christine called home to her husband.
"Hi darling honeybuckets, how are you?" Todd asked. Ironically, his greeting was almost automatic.
"Oh I'm fine, I've just had the most interesting morning..." Christine started, excitedly wanting to relay the big developments of the day. She sat with her right leg crossed over her left. Her right foot bobbed up and down with the same vigor that she had in her voice.
If Christine had had eyes in the back of her head, she would have noticed the mailroom guy staring at her and listening. But she didn't notice anything.
"Super," interrupted Todd. He sounded half asleep. "Well just be sure to pick up cauliflower on the way home." He hung up.
Christine scrunched up her nose. She loved her husband. He made her happy. But he didn't seem to listen to her.
And he wasn't... the most titillating of lovers. He paid attention to her. But his idea of hot sex was doing it in the missionary position with the thermostat turned up.
Christine didn't let herself think about this for too long. He was good to her and she would be good to him.
She had met him when she was younger and more on the insecure side. But he had been there for her after an ugly breakup. So she trusted him. And she would devote her life to him.
Even if he didn't... well, Christine couldn't and wouldn't think about *that*. Not at home with her husband who loved her and certainly not on this very big day.
*That*, of course, was a curiosity Christine had that she wouldn't let herself think about.
*That* was a desire Christine had that had remained unfulfilled. She had pushed it to the back of her brain over the years. Her career and her husband had taken up her thoughts and her drive.
*That*, which Christine had locked up in a box deep in her head, was her screaming wailing lust for being tickle tortured on her underarms. It wasn't something she had ever dreamed of explaining to her boyfriends. It wasn't something she could even think about without turning red in the face. She certainly couldn't tell Todd about it.
But it was her own dark sexual fetish. And the more successful she was in her career, the more successful she was in continuing her own marriage, the less she could even dream of sharing this with anyone.
It was a dark thought she would have late at night when her husband was asleep. With the pretense of working, she would peruse video after video of women having the shit tickled out of their underarms. By men. Their suffering is what she craved and what made her orgasm.
But she couldn't share this. Once, during lovemaking with her milquetoast husband, she had asked him to place his hands in her underarms.
His response had been a bored "Why?"
She couldn't say "Why" and so had simply shrugged it off and given up.
So she would rely on videos to satisfy her secret urge.
Christine snapped back to reality. Instinctively she pulled her arms closer to her body. Her work secret she could guard from others.
Her own private secret she had to guard from herself.
The afternoon continued the same as the morning. Fast-paced highly productive goal oriented meetings. Her coworkers and other heads of departments were impressed by the speed with which she dissected and resolved problems.
Around 6 o'clock, Christine stopped work in corner office. I was time to go home and unwind over dinner with Todd.
In the unseasonably warm Toronto spring (it was 10 degrees), Christine hailed a cab.
"Lawrence Park, please". Still somewhat in work mode, Christine took out her iPad and started jotting down little reminders for herself.
"Of course!" The taxi driver responded politely.
Not paying attention to her surroundings, Christine immersed herself in planning the rest of her week.
She didn't notice that the lush greens of Lawrence Park didn't materialize. She didn't notice that the neighborhood was in a place she had never been.
She just didn't notice anything around her.
Not until the taxi driver pulled into a garage and everything became very dark.
"Hey! Where are we, eh? This doesn't look like Lawrence Park." Christine wasn't afraid but she was slightly confused about what was occurring.
Still she didn't notice the masked man standing next to the cab. Not until he opened her door and motioned towards her with his hands.
It was then that she felt very, very bad about her surroundings.
"Oh my god," she gasped. She could see a gun in the masked man's belt.
"Not God. Call me Mark," replied the man with the mask. He grabbed her wrist and slowly but firmly guided her out of the cab. The driver remained silent.
"What is going on?!" Standing outside the cab in the dark dank room, she stared up at him, shouting in indignation. He wasn't tall but he still towered over her at five feet seven inches. The ceilings were even taller, as if this had been an industrial warehouse. This added to how small Christine felt.
Everyone towered over little Christine, Christine reflected.
Fear set in.
Mark leaned in "Don't make a sound and you won't get hurt. If you work with me I'll have you back to your home with your husband by midnight." Not convinced of this but certain that she had no other choice, she cooperated.
Still dressed as a high-powered producer, she was led down a long hallway by masked Mark through what felt like a deserted yet climate-controlled factory.
She heard a heavy door close and a bolt being thrown behind her.
"Where am I?" was answered by Mark sitting her down on what looked like a cushioned bench, except there was no back. He fitted two padded cuffs onto her wrists.
Mark flicked a switch. The new, padded restraints suddenly pulled her arms above her head.
"What are you doing to me?" was answered by the masked man fastening a set of stocks around her ankles and tightening them to the couch.
He took off her black shoes. Slowly. Deliberately.
Out of instinct, Christine wiggled her shoeless hosed feet. Even through the nylons the dark red toenails were very visible on Christine's size five soles.
Fear continued to bubble in Christine's tummy.
Still the man was not talking.
Looking around the room, Christine noted that it was windowless. It was devoid of any furniture save for the padded bench and stocks and a gigantic television screen.
Nervously Christine tried to wriggle out of her wrist restraints.
Silently, Mark approached the tiny bound lady with scissors while explaining "Hold still, I'm not going to hurt you."
Christine held still.
Mark cut off her black silk blouse (which really bothered Christine, possibly more than being restrained).
She felt fresh air hit her exposed underarms. Involuntarily, Christine shivered. She didn't feel comfortable being made vulnerable like this, no less by a masked man.
He cut off her pants. He left her in her black bra, black panties and black hose.
"I'll give you anything you want. I have money. Lots of it. I can give you a small fortune," Christine pleaded. A controlled edge was in her voice. She was used to being in control. And now she was trying to get it back from this man.
Still wordlessly, the man walked behind Christine. Unable to fully turn around, she heard him sit down.
"I represent a client who is very aware of what your company is about to produce. My client needs to know everything there is to know about it. Tell us what we want to know."
Christine's mind raced a millions kilometers a minute. She suddenly knew exactly what this was about.
This was about her show. Her baby. This was about giving up information about something that would make her and her company famous.
She couldn't do it. She had worked her entire life for this. She couldn't just give this up. Not even to an anonymous asshole who had her tied up.
"I don't know what you are talking about." Christine bit her lip.
She heard Mark fidget behind her. The screen turned on.
"My client understands that this is something that you will not readily agree to. My client wants you to know that we have a secret about you, as well."
On the screen a video suddenly displayed.
Christine's heart dropped into her stomach.
It was a video of a woman, tied down, with her arms restrained over her head, being tickled by a man. It was a video she had watched dozens of times while touching herself late at night. It was something she had never shared with anyone, ever.
And now she was being forced to watch it with her own arms restrained over head, wearing only a bra, panties and hose.
"We've done our research too. We discovered that something about you that none of us expected."
Christine didn't move. She felt a warmth growing in her groin. She couldn't believe this was happening. This was so humiliating to her. This was so private.
Nervously she shifted in her seat. Her naked, bare underarms fully exposed.
On the screen the girl -- who's name was Brooke, Christine remembered -- was completely writhing around in conniptions while *her* masked tickler finger-sodomized her underarms.
"It was truly a surprise to me. I didn't expect to find video after video on your computer of women being tickled." Christine could've crushed a walnut with her butt. She was so nervous. Her private fantasy was being casually deconstructed by this complete stranger.
He sounded so cocky.
The wetness between Christine's legs continued to develop.
Suddenly she felt fingers on her sides.
"Don't!" exclaimed Christine.
"Don't *what*???" Mark was an asshole. Christine could feel fingers, his fingers, just casually resting on her sides.
"Don't do *that*!" Desperation crept into Christine's voice.
"Don't do WHAT???" Christine could hear Mark smiling under the mask.
"Mark I'm married..." Christine whimpered.
His fingers immediately started their work. Ten savages playing her sides like an accordion.
Christine laughed. Christine struggled against her bonds (to no effect, of course).
"If you're so married then why are you enjoying this," said the masked tickler sitting behind Christine.
"Why is this turning you on?" He paused for a moment. Suddenly the screen changed.
It was Christine! It was herself, restrained, looking at herself from face-forward angle of the camera in the room. She could see her bare underarms, her exposed sides with his fingers on them, her soles.
She gasped. She looked so helpless. She was at this man's mercy.
"Christine, ask yourself: why is this turning you on? You are a powerful woman in your job. You are confident, smart, sassy. Can you tell me why being tickle tortured on your sides turns you on?" With that Mark resumed his strumming of Christine's sides.
Invectives poured out of Christine's mouth, interrupted by high gales of laughter. She was getting her clock cleaned.
"And you know what else, little woman?" Mark asked.
Christine didn't answer. She was on another planet of ticklishness. No one had ever tickled her like this before. Not any ex-boyfriend. No one.
"We could mail out copies of this video -- of you being tickle tortured -- to everyone in your work."
Christine came out of her stupor.
"Don't. Please don't. Please please please don't!" True desperation rang out of Christine's voice.
"Call your husband right now and tell him you won't be home until midnight."
"Fine, please fine."
"Act normal."
Mark held a phone to Christine's sweaty face. A familiar voice came on the other side.
"Hello?" Todd sounded bored already.
"Hi sweetie I was just calling to tell you that I've been tied up..."
Christine felt a finger probe in her ribs. Now now, there would be none of that.
"... at work and I won't be home till late tonight. Ok? I'm sorry." The finger eased its pressure.
"Sure." And Todd hung up.
"You're mine until midnight little woman. You could stop all of this if you told me about your new project."
The side strumming resumed for a full minute. Christine laughed heartily from her chest. She kept her eyes on the screen, watching Mark's fingers tickle torture her completely helpless sides. She couldn't look away.
Mark stopped as abruptly as he had started.
"Anything to say?"
Christine shook her head. She couldn't throw her career down the drain. She couldn't stand the tickling. It was too much. It was unbearable. But she couldn't just give up what she had worked for her whole life.
She could see Mark's fingers resting on her sides again. Then they edged off.
Mark walked around her, kneeling down in front of the stocks.
Christine took a deep breath. She knew what was coming. Her toes wiggled nervously in anticipation.
Silently, and without warning, he proceeded to tickle the hosed feet.
"Tickle tickle tickle!" the masked asshole said. Like carp out of water, her feet danced and jumped and tried to get away. But her soles were tickle meat for Mark.
And he wasn't even asking her any questions anymore. He was focused entirely on placing his ten little indians on her hosed soles.
"You know I'll have to cut this off too." Handily, Mark produced scissors and unceremoniously cut off the hose. Christine held herself. She knew what was coming.
Air hit her soles.
She would be tickled on her bare feet.
On the screen she saw his fingers start molesting her naked foot bottoms. It was too much. She couldn't take it. She couldn't stand it.
"Please..."
"Please... what...?"
"I can't..." Christine was yelling now.
"Yell louder sweetie. This room is soundproof." Mark was an asshole. Yes he was. Christine hated him so much. As the intensity of the tickling worsened, she cursed his name and the names of all his future descendents. On the screen she could see her soles turn a bright pink, abused from the sensations of his roaming fingernails. She couldn't move her fucking feet.
After an interval of time that Christine couldn't begin to determine, Mark stopped. Again. Abruptly. He paced back to behind Christine and positioned himself with his hands on her ribs. Again.
"Well, there is more. You have a particular fetish within a fetish." He left the rest unsaid. Mark's fingers continued to rest on Christine's sides, as she could see on the screen.
Every now and then one of the fingers would apply a little pressure and provoke her into a little hop.
"All the videos you watch have a very specific theme to them."
Christine froze. She couldn't breathe.
"They were all about women being tickled in a specific place."
Slowly, Christine felt and saw (on the screen) Mark's hands moving up her sides.
"You know that place."
Christine wanted to close her eyes. But she couldn't. All five feet of her tickle tortured helpless self was completely and absolutely drawn to the image of herself, on the screen.
"I'm going to tickle that place." Christine hated Mark so much right now. He sounded so fucking cocky.
"I'm going to tickle your underarms, and YOU.CAN'T.STOP.ME."
Christine gasped.
She could see ten fingers inside her arm hollows. Making independent movements. It was an explosion of sensation that she couldn't stop. Her arms involuntarily tried to draw down, but they couldn't. They were tied down.
Christine was being tickled on her ticklish helpless underarms and all she could do was watch herself.
And she couldn't stop watching herself. No matter how hard she laughed or struggled.
Mark's fingers tortured Christine's underarms without abandon. For ten solid minutes (or so it seemed), they drew figure eights. Then without warning they would each rake a path down the underarms. There was nothing Christine could do to stop it.
She could feel his breath on her the back of her neck.
Christine had never been this aroused her entire life. Her underwear was completely soaked through.
And she laughed like a woman possessed.
Ten minutes into it, Mark stopped.
Christine confessed to everything, spouting all her ideas to Mark, past present and future. She told him everything. The underarms were too much for her. She couldn't take it.
Mark listened.
She heard him dialing.
"The subject continues to resist all manner of interrogation. I'll continue the plan."
He hung up.
"You fucking asshole," Christine said, with equal parts anger and frustrated lust. She was a disheveled angry, aroused mess.
She stared at herself in the screen, her soles bared and secured in stocks, with her masked tormentor behind her. His fingers resting on her underarms. Not moving. Just reminding her of what he would continue to do to her.
"You love this." She hated him so much.
His fingers resumed their work. Christine watched herself suffer on the screen.
