Myopia (M/F)

MYOPIA
By Loquei

(Warning: this story contains non-consensual tickling)

Not for the first time that day, Gemma wished she’d put her contacts in. She could see a little without them, but anything beyond her height of five foot two began to blur. In short, she could see every detail of her sneakers if she looked down, so she reckoned that was about the extent of her range.

Returning home from college, the streets were a blur, the passers-by melded into view and disappeared just as quickly in the evening rain, and she found her way home by instinct as much as observation. She was careful: road crossings were taken with patience, she moved aside for everyone, and politeness helped her through many situations where a lack of sight could have caused a problem.

It was after dark when she arrived at her apartment, slipped the key in the communal front door and made her way up the stairs. Once inside her room, she froze- something was very, very wrong. The familiar had been altered, something didn’t smell as it should, and a sense emerged, a feeling that she was not alone. A figure appeared from the nearby bathroom and snapped his arm out. She could tell he wore dark clothing and a balaclava, and her heart hammered as much at the shock as the very real and distinct crackle of the Taser that came into sharp focus at the furthest point of her focal range.

“Do not make a noise and you will not be harmed” he instructed. His voice was quiet, soft and professional without an accent. He wasn’t very tall, wasn’t too muscular, and had no identifiable characteristics at all- medium height, average build, soft voice, dark clothing: he could have been anyone.

“Who are you?” she stammered, wondering whether to scream.

“If that intake of breath fills your lungs, I will Taser you” he warned, gently. “For the purposes of this moment you may call me Brink. If you follow my commands, you will not be hurt. If you resist, this will go badly for you…”

“Please!” she blurted, feet pushing back against the door as if the very act could take her through the wood, down the stairs and out into the night, “I don’t have any money, I’m a college student, my parents pay for everything and they’ve used our savings to send me here, we can’t pay any ransom…”

“Turn around” he instructed, pulling her shoulder. Unwilling to lose sight of him but not daring to look, Gemma felt his hand on her shoulder and suddenly the undulating patterns of the wooden door came into sharp view. The shoulders of her jacket were seized and pulled downwards, off her arms. Hearing accentuated by years of myopia, she heard the fabric rustle to the floorboards. “Give me your hands” he said, gently. “I will not hurt you unless you make a sound.”

“What are you going to…” she began, a thousand scenarios flying through her mind. Could she yell? He would see her chest expand, and no- the Taser would rob her of any chance to warn her neighbours. The recently married young couple, Tom and Gill, lived across the hall and whilst Tom was away, Gill would be home soon.

Gloved hands pulled her hair back from her shoulders and gathered them in a band, an improvised ponytail. The gloves then took hold of her wrists and pulled them behind where something cut into her skin to the point of discomfort, a hasty rip of a serrated plastic edge, and suddenly her wrists were encased in a zip tie.

“Please!” she begged, not daring to speak up, “I don’t have anything…”

His fingers pushed a ball into her mouth and she nearly gagged as he paused, held it in place, and stroked the back of her head.

“Accept it, don’t choke” he said, “fix your teeth around the front and settle the ball in place.”

She did as she was told, her choking stopped, and Brink pulled the straps behind her head to fasten the gag in place. She was turned, guided, straining against the gag and led gently into her living room where he had pulled a dining chair into the centre of the floor. Panic flew through her mind, her feet felt hot in her shoes, the blood rushed inward to fuel the organs and her fight or flight response would have taken her far from the room if she was allowed.

The seat of the chair was against the back of her knees and his hands pushed her down before he glided behind, pulled her hands through the backrest and cuffed them to a bar on the supporting frame. Unable to stand, she could only watch and squirm as he moved about the room, blurring when he passed beyond her distinct vision and returning to focus soon after to crouch by her side.

Something drew her left ankle to the leg of the chair, then he moved around, caught hold of her right leg and she saw a length of chord in his hands. His fingers probed inside the hem of her jeans and pushed her sock down before he tied the second chord around her right ankle, strapping her to the right leg of the chair. Finally, he moved behind her and rested his hands on her trembling shoulders.

“I know your first instinct is to be afraid, to fear the unknown, to wonder what I am going to do with you” he modulated his voice, calm, rich, even possessive. “The truth is, you have no control over what I do. I can do anything. I could do everything. I can elicit any reaction from you- starting with this.”

His fingers touched her neck and stroked the sides, under the jaw, down to the cleft of her breastbone and to the sides underneath her collar as the feeling of undulating terror gave way to…squirming? He tickled. Her head moved reflexively in an attempt to stave off the feeing but wherever her head moved, his fingers played somewhere else. Relentless, teasing, probing; his fingers found the sensitive skin on her neck and her response followed. When he tired of this, he traced his fingers down her squirming neck, stroked her back and found her Rhomboids, between her spine and scapula. Suddenly, he dug in. Tight muscle bunched by adrenalin suddenly found its tension a disadvantage as his fingers stroked gently, fingertips pushing and tracing and with it, the building sensation that suddenly forced her to buck in the chair. A laugh escaped her lips: how could she laugh when terrified?

“The stimulus that brings fear also brings laughter in times of emotional stress” Brink said, as if reading her thoughts, “ever wondered why some people laugh and others react in horror at sudden misfortune? I prefer laughter…”

Gemma writhed, fighting harsh sobs of breath through the ball gag that gathered drool, draining and spooling onto her lap as he dug into her Rhomboids with deadly effect, bringing involuntary laughter without mirth. Her t-shirt offered little protection and soon his hands graced sideways and in terror, she thought “not the ribs, no please, not the…”

He stroked her ribs, probing, kneading, engendering spasmodic reflexes and unforeseen reactions of laughter as one emotional response took the place of another. She fought the smile: how could she smile? This man had burgled her, subdued her, tied her and was now ticking her! Convulsing against her restraints, he showed no mercy but a calculating escalation in his attentions, designed to slowly shift her fear and tenseness to relaxation and mirth. Helpless to the endorphins that flooded her system, powerless to the serotonin that escalated in her blood, she began to laugh through the gag, to pant in mirth without enjoyment. Endless waves of heightened tickling crashed through her system until her t-shirt stuck to her body, the soles of her feet scrunched in her socks, the jeans stuck to her legs and her forehead speckled in perspiration.

Brink paused, retreated as she slumped in the chair and returned within her focal range with a bottle of water. He slipped a straw into the corner of her mouth past the ball gag and gently squirted- not so much as to choke her, but sufficient for her to gulp the water in relief. He stepped back, placed the bottle by the Taser, and appraised her. Just beyond her focal range, he seemed calculating, appraising, and then spoke the words that delivered a knife blow to her heart.

“I think, it’s time we had you in bare feet.”

Part two to follow.

Great story! Looking forward to part two.

PART TWO

Gemma shook her head. This couldn’t be happening, people didn’t just break into your apartment, tie you to a chair and tickle you: there had to be some explanation. Brink moved about the room, in and out of her focal range and not for the first time that day, she wished she had remembered to put her contacts in.

He reappeared and took hold of her chair and she mumbled through the gag, strained against the ties and shook her head until he shushed her as a parent would to a child.

“It’s no use protesting” he said, “it’s time we had your shoes and socks off. You can complain, thrash, object, but there’s ultimately nothing you can do about it. Right, let’s get you over.”

Strong hands gripped and she felt herself pushed backwards and lowered to the floor so that her feet protruded from the forward legs of the chair. Brink pulled up a stool, sat, and took her right sneaker in his hands. His fingers found her laces and tugged, ever so gently, at the loose ends, drawing loose the knot with inexorable pace and all the while, he maintained a maddening, soothing voice.

“Laces are good for anticipation. I’ve told you what will happen, now you get to see it, played out like a movie with you as the star. You can see the knot unravel- there’s one, now the other… and you can already feel the tightness of the fabric relax about your foot. Let me ease them a little for you- we both know you won’t be wearing them for long.”

Brink slipped his fingers inside her sneakers and, one at a time, pulled the fabric apart and teased the untied laces loose. Her feet flopped a little inside each shoe and her eyes stared at him in panic- he was enjoying this, behind his balaclava and ever so calm exterior. His hands gripped the sole and pulled, eased the shoe from her heel and lifted it from her right foot. Immediately, instinctively, she flexed her toes in her white socks and he smiled in appreciation.

“Now the left” he reached across and pulled away her left before seizing the fabric of the socks, one at a time, and tweaking them loose as if to separate the fabric from the adhesive sweat of her skin.

“Socks off time, for you” he smiled. Her eyes widened, breath in short gasps behind the ball gag, and could only shake her head as his fingers hooked inside the elastic band of the right and gently, ever so gently stretched it wide, down, open and gaping, revealing her heel around which he anchored the fabric. From her ankle to the base of her heel, her skin showed healthy, pink, and fresh. She moaned, tried to twist her foot but he ignored the feeble defence, taking the bunched fabric beneath her instep between two fingers and tugging, dragging, stretching until the anchor point at the heel gave way, and the sock suddenly slipped forward. Only the front half of her foot was covered now, and Brink tugged the fabric from her toes until the sock hung from the end.

“And off we come” he said, providing the final tug to expose her right foot to the air. Carefully, be brushed off any strands of fabric and, taking her foot in both hands, began to knead and massage the sole with strong fingers. He reached down to her knee and, placing his fingers either side of her patella, rotated in petrissage that caused an involuntary shriek. His hand strayed further, attacked her ribs, and only when she was laughing freely did Gemma notice her foot convulsed as his fingers played gently on her sole, the balls of her foot, and between the toes. She shrieked behind the gag, thrashed her head from side to side and kicked her foot as much as the bindings would allow.

She couldn’t believe it: not this, she thought. Anything but this. Tears streamed down her face, her breath laboured, and soon he transferred both hands to her one bare foot, stroking the top side, rolling curls around her midstep, flexing on her ball and bending her toes back to gently rotate his fingernails in the soft flesh before stroking for long, slow, torturous seconds from her ball to her heel.

“Is it time for both?” he asked, tweaking her left foot through the sock, stroking to lesser effect as he attacked her right. Gemma screamed behind her ball gag and shook her head, so he switched up her body.

“The ribs, then?” he offered, “Because it’s one or the other.” His fingers found her ribs and kneaded, probed, twisted and lifted the t-shirt from her jeans and stroked the flesh beneath. Desperate to breathe, maddened from the torment, she shook her head harder and his hands returned to her left foot, grasped the material and stretched, ever so slowly, as the elastic around her ankle fought the inexorable pressure, and failed. The sock popped off in his hand and he discarded it, wiped the strands of fabric, and smiled.

“Barefoot. Perfect. I told you we’d have you barefoot in no time. Ah, no I didn’t: that was last week’s girl” he mused, correcting himself, “never mind.”

He now stroked both feet equally, increasing pressure on the hard flesh, reducing pressure on the soft flesh, fighting a grinning game with her waggling feet that desperately tried to avoid the relentless torture that was enjoyable for him but not for her. She laughed until her ribs hurt, whether he squeezed her knees, scrabbled over her ribs, stroked her neck, dug into her armpits with his fingertips or stroked her bare feet.

Then suddenly, everything stopped. Gemma collapsed, exhausted and breathless in her restraints, and became aware he was behind her, lifting her, moving the chair upright. Her ankle restraints were gone- she hadn’t even noticed him untie them and somehow failed to feel him unhook her wrist ties from the clip that locked her into the back of the chair. Her t-shirt and jeans were soaked with sweat, her hair dishevelled in the pony tail, and he helped her stand on uncertain legs.

“Now it’s time for a walk” he said, lifting the Taser, “and if you do anything to upset me or draw attention, this will go painfully for you.”

She could barely nod as he led her towards the door, seized her keys and checked the hallway outside. Satisfied, Brink led her out onto the cool marble of the landing and locked the door behind them. She grunted at the floor and he shook his head.

“Barefoot for you, I’m afraid” he smiled, and led her towards the back staircase where none of the other residents would see her. Down the dark steps, guiding her so she did not fall, Brink opened the door to the small car park behind her building and, with a quick check to see they would be uninterrupted, led her out onto the tarmac, now cold in the night air. Gemma winced as he led her quickly across the blurred car park. With her myopia, Gemma had never learned to drive and, casting her head about to see some shape she could find, some person or bystander for whom she could create a scene and attract attention, yet again she cursed herself for not putting in her contacts or wearing her glasses.

Suddenly, a Buick appeared before them and Brink popped the trunk. Gemma pushed back: there was no way she would be a hostage, bound and gagged and bundled off to an unknown fate, and she resisted Brink’s attempts to force her inside.

“There’s no-one to hear or see you, so stop playing about and get in the car!” he insisted but she struggled all the harder. He tickled her ribs and she nearly collapsed, but stamped out at his legs ineffectually until he lost patience. Brink fumbled at the button of her jeans and, holding her arms back behind her, yanked the zip down. He pushed the jeans down her hips and with them, her panties as he bent her face forward into the trunk of his car and used both hands to yank her jeans and panties to mid-thigh.

Nearly screaming behind her gag, Gemma kicked and struggled until the sharp, painful impact of an open hand slapped her across her rear. A second blow followed the first, then a third, and a fourth, and on they went. She was being spanked! She struggled, her bare feet pushed against the floor, her legs tried to stop her trousers slipping further but he was spanking her again and again with hard painful blows across her rear and the top of her legs to force her into submission.

Strength fled her, tears poured from her eyes and suddenly she relaxed, the trunk loomed closer and a kicking leg was seized and hoisted high. She tumbled into the trunk and, without the dignity of pulling her trousers up, Brink merely lashed a rope tie around her knees and another where the jeans bunched about her ankles, and slammed the lid shut.

Breathless, painful, tearful and also very much afraid, she lay in the darkness of the trunk as the drivers’ door opened, reverberated through the car as it shut, and the engine purred to life.

She was a prisoner.

PART THREE (included here for completeness)- also posted under "myopic" part 3, by accident. - Loquei

(warning: this contains non-consensual erotic elements and non-consensual tickling)

The car drove sedately, gently, slowing down before traffic lights to maintain velocity and complete its entire journey without pause. Brink knew his roads, he could read traffic, and Gemma never once felt the car slow sufficiently for her to kick out with her bare feet and hammer on the inside of the trunk to attract the attention of any passing pedestrian.

Thoughts flooded her mind: where was she being taken? What would happen? As much as the fear built, so too did a surprising thought in her mind, an erotic fascination that robbed some of the fear and replaced it with other, more curious thoughts. Gemma had never tried bondage, liked being tickled but hadn’t had a boyfriend since coming to the city. No, she thought, this was serious: she could die, she could disappear, and anything could happen to her between that moment and her inevitable demise.

The car climbed in elevation, winding back on roads that left the noise of the city far behind. She shifted, the bare skin of her posterior rubbing on the carpet in the trunk as she tried to rub her jeans back up her legs with friction, to no avail. With her pubic hair and rear cheeks on display, she felt isolated, violated, and helpless.

The car crawled over gravel and stopped, the engine turned off, and silence fought with the hammering of her heart, the stifled breath behind her gag, and the sound of the night insects in the trees. The car door opened, a weight left the vehicle, and the door slammed. He crunched away- that wasn’t good: if he made her walk on gravel in bare feet, it would be painful. Somewhere, a door slid open and he disappeared inside. She kicked out, groaned through her gag, kicked out even more and began to make as much noise as she could in the hope that someone, anyone, would hear her.

Footsteps returned, the boot unlatched, and suddenly she could see out. Brink stood above her, gathering her legs and pulling them out. He unlaced the rope around her ankles, then her knees, tried to pull her jeans back up but they were tight, so he sighed and changed direction. Powerless to stop him, she could only kick feebly as he pulled the hem of the jeans over her bare ankles, seized the fabric and tugged hard. The jeans slid down her legs and off, and despite her groan of protest, he pulled her underwear down after, tugging them off her feet.

“Lets’ get you out” he ordered, helping her from the trunk to stand, hands still zip-tied behind and naked but for her bra and t-shirt. The ground was, as predicted, painful underfoot and he led her hopping, gingerly stepping across the ground, mewling in painful protest towards the door of a log cabin and the steps that led down to a basement. Her myopia prevented her from seeing anything around them but darkness, though her ears told her they were in the hills overlooking the city, within a forest.

Down wooden steps they went into a concrete floored room with exposed wooden batons on the walls and supporting beams above. Candles in red glass holders cast a dim, flickering light, and the centre of the floor was dominated by a soft, inch-thick plastic padded mat on which he led her. Swinging from the overhead beam was a cable and a carabiner, and he guided her backwards to lock her wrist ties in place before he withdrew to a handle on the wall. A wheel turned, clicking a ratchet, and the cable retracted sufficiently to draw Gemma up onto her toes. Brink returned with a blindfold. Gemma shook her head but he played the game until he could fasten it about her eyes and tied it behind her skull.

He suddenly attacked her ribs, drawing mirth from her gagged mouth once more, scrabbling fingers up and down, stroking her bare ass cheeks, gently tickling the back of her knees and kneading the patella, and whilst she gyrated on her bare toes, he dragged fingertips across her bare feet. His fingers graced up her ankles, tickled her calves, past her knees and up her thighs until suddenly, his fingers slipped inside her clitoris and she gasped, more in surprise than with any ticklish sensation.

Brink grabbed her hips and squeezed, watching as she convulsed, screaming against the gag as his fingers searched every inch of her stomach, ribs, and occasionally slipped down to stroke her womanhood with gentle pressure. She laughed behind the gag, cried behind the blindfold, and felt arousal building within. What kind of sick game was he playing? She barely had time to react to one type of tickling when he changed target and invoked a whole new feeling of helpless laughter or arousal that built, wave upon wave, a slave to his desires and helpless to his hands.

He stopped and lifted her t-shirt away from her skin and something grated, metal on metal. Seconds passed before she realised he was cutting her t-shirt away and only when the scissors touched her shoulder did she protest, but by then it was too late. The tattered garment was pulled away, her bra unclasped, and with inevitable snips, her bra fell from her body. Naked, suspended on her toes, Gemma tried to plead behind her gag but he attacked her again, tickling her legs until she stamped in frustration, slipping his hand inside her clitoris until she grunted and panted, and stroking her breasts, kneading her ribs and tickling her neck to give her no respite.

“She’s all yours” Brink said, although his hands continued his assault. She was building in perspiration and arousal as a new set of feet stepped onto the mat and Brink slipped away. New hands grasped her from behind, spread her legs, and something warm and resilient pushed inside her clitoris, partly withdrew, and pushed forward again. She could sense the naked man behind her, feel the violation of his manhood deep within and still she laughed as her new assailant tickled her ribs whilst he penetrated her again and again, making her pant with arousal between the laughter, the screaming, and the gathering climax.

She screamed, bucked, rocked, exploded in orgasm that shook her to a trembling mess as he grunted in release, unleashing inside her, satisfying them both with a repeated pulsation that slowed, calmed, and glowed. Brink lowered the cable, her mystery attacker cut the cable ties and gathered her in his arms, and she was pulled back into an embrace, too tired to do anything but breathe.

“I love you, baby” he said, and her mind struggled to connect the voice. Then, it came to her. Tom? Tom her neighbour, who lived across the hall from her apartment and was recently married to Gill. They were a pleasant young couple who…

“Gemma?” Tom brushed her hair from her face and she opened her eyes. Instead of love, lust or arousal, all she saw was the dawning horror of realisation as Tom quickly undid the straps from the back of her head. “Oh my God, Gemma?”

“What’s up?” Brink returned to view, counting a wad of cash. “Abduction fantasy not all you thought it was?”

“This isn’t my wife!” Tom looked like he was about to vomit, “we live at number sixteen, you idiot! This girl lives at nineteen!”

“Dammit” Brink sagged, shaking his head in regret, “I KNEW I should have put my contact lenses in…”

Not sure what to make of this story. I guess a serious case of mistaken identify, and it was easy to figure out that the neighbor would be involved.

I love this story! Brilliant work. I hope you have more stories like this inside and you share them all!

Thanks for for efforts!

Good use of mistaken identity! Btw, herror shoes were taken off in part 1 and part 2 but it doesn't hurt the flow...

Great story! I love the build up and the action and there was a nice little twist there at the end.

Bravo! I hope you continue to share your writing talents.

Loved this!

amazing

Many thanks!

Many thanks! Thank you very much!

My thanks, and glad you liked it.

Thought it was awesome with great details...

LOL Damn fine tale. Loved the ending!