TeeHeeLawrence
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"Coochie Coo Continuation": F/M, mostly upper body, some feet; tiny touch of M/F
*The following F/M--with the barest touch (literally!) of M/F--ticklefest is copyright 2016 by the author. (That and $3 will buy me a cup of coffee at one of the innumerable leading global liquid caffeine vender's locations.)
*If you haven't read its F/M predecessor--or wish to refresh your ticklish memory, I strongly suggest that you read it via the link in red below.
COOCHIE COO CONTINUATION
a sequel to COOCHIE COO CON, posted HERE on the Forum all too long ago
(back when the price of oil was probably three times what it is now--THAT'S how long!)
by Tee Hee Lawrence
Chris, a pale, modestly-built, somewhat scruffy hipster pushing 30, with short wavy brown hair and granny specs, sat in the compact, sunlit kitchen of his friend Thena's Astoria apartment. She was in the shower, robustly rapping in Greek against the EU. He, clad in a worn black leather jacket, white tee, black jeans, and checkerboard Vans, was using his phone to locate the barely-on-the-grid Long island City gallery where a mutual friend was celebrating an exhibition opening that night. His phone roared like a lion.
He reflexively tapped his Bluetooth. "Yeah?"
A smoky-voiced woman asked, "Is this Chris?"
"If you're calling to poll me on the damn election, I won't vote for ANY of the bastards."
"No, haha. I'm calling to tell you that...I AM TICKLING YOUR FEET."
Chris immediately felt long fingernails stroking his soles and under his toes in spite of his socks and shoes. He barked with astonished laughter, as his feet were very touchy for such a wannabe cool sophisticate. "HEEY! Hehhehhehheh--How--hehhehheh--is--hehheh--this--hehhehhahaha--hahappening? Hehhehheh..."
The voice in his ear teased, "OOOOOOOOO! My little dork is STILL SOOOO TICKLISH! Hehhehheh!"
"Hehhehheh...nuhnuh...eeheeheeheehee...n-no-no-no...eeeheehee...stop-stop-hehhehheh...."
He roiled in the chair, stamping his feet to try to forestall the tickling. When that failed, he fought his swelling giggles as he fumblingly struggled to remove his shoes and socks. Barefoot, he still felt the nails relentlessly running up and down his soles and teasing between his toes. By that time, he'd surrendered to helpless laughter.
"HahahanonooooOOOAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"Such a weak and tick-a-lish man, hehhehheh!" teased the voice. "Tickle...tickle...tickle....under your FEEEEEEEET...under your TOOOOOESSSS...tickle...tickle...tihhhhc-kaaaaal!"
"DO-HOHON'T! STAHAHAHOPPIT! AAAAAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"Little man SO smart and SO smug is SOOOOOOOO ticklish!" the voice exulted, reveling in her easy dominance. "Now, listen well, silly man," the voice intoned. "At 9am tomorrow morning, you will wait for me alone in your apartment. You will tell no one about this. You will consciously forget receiving this call after it ends."
Vigorously toweling her short hair, jet black with Aegean-blue highlights, Thena, wrapped in a Greek flag bath towel, padded into the kitchen. Baby-faced and waif-like in her mid-20s, she (over)compensated with a salty demeanor, butch haircut, copious piercings, even more tatts, and a Salvation Army wardrobe. "What's so funny, idiot?"
Vainly fighting against the tickling, he tried to focus on and reply to his fiery friend, who stood before him, smirking. She allowed the flag to fall, imperiously setting her hands on her trim hips and tapping a bare foot impatiently, growling, "You're high, aren't you? And I'll bet--you PIG--you didn't save ANY for ME!"
As if to confirm her suspicions, he tumbled off the chair, landing laughing on the linoleum. Normally, the sight of Thena in her attractive altogether would have had his complete attention. But, he was literally SO tickled that he was laughably incapable of admiring her body or minding her words.
"And what's THIS?" She kicked at his strewn shoes and socks. "Makin' a mess?"
"Hehhehhenuhnuhno," he protested before seeming to find her disgusted expression even more hilarious. "AHHAHAHAHAnoHAHAHAHAnuhnnuhnoHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!"
Thena screeched, "Will you SHUT...UP? Stop laughing!"
At that moment, the voice in his ear announced, "I STOP." She ended the call.
Chris was bewildered to find himself, barefoot and breathless, sitting on Thena's kitchen floor, with her naked and glowering over him. His sides ached, and his feet tingled. He smiled sheepishly at her, and said, "Er...hi!"
She swallowed a tirade, sighed, and instead, dripping with faux sweetness, asked, "Did you at least get the address of the gallery, baby?"
He staggered to his feet and picked up his phone to show her the gallery's homepage. She resumed drying her hair, and muttered, "Put your shoes on, laughing boy, or we'll be late." Greek flag over her shoulder, she padded into her shoebox of a bedroom to get dressed.
**********
The next morning, Malka exited a cab in front of a small, nondescript Williamsburg apartment building. “So this is where my ticklish mark lives, huh,” she thought, smiling.
The mature, lustrous olive-skinned, generously-figured woman was wearing a navy blazer, white blouse, navy knee-length skirt, tan nylons, and navy high heels. She made a point of dressing in a conservative, professional manner when she went out on house calls to meet clients for psychic readings. She even wore a lanyard with a picture ID for "Mrs. Sofia Starni" of “Municipal Social Services,” which Milena, one of her clever, college-age daughters, had fabricated for her.
She had found these house calls to be more lucrative than business at the storefront, which her younger sister was minding this morning. Her clients, almost always women, tended to be less guarded when she met them in their homes. Thus, they were usually more generous in their remunerations when her readings assured them of future love, wealth, and happiness, or warned them of approaching bad luck which could be expiated by entrusting a large sum to her.
Because this visit involved a particularly ticklish con, however, she had also pinned her shining, straight, long raven hair, streaked with silver, in a tight coil, and had disguised it under a generous wavy, dark blond wig. She was also wearing dark, reflective sunglasses, and had removed all of her customary, copious jewelry except for her gold wedding band, a thin gold anklet under nylon, and a simple gold neck chain, from which hung a pendant, hidden under her blouse.
She was confident that this house call would be a particular success, even if her “client” was not consciously expecting her. She had, a few weeks earlier, given him a very special reading late one night at her storefront. Discovering his hilarious weakness, she, her sister, and her two college-age daughters had taken advantage of his drunkenness to trap and tickle him out of several hundred dollars. She’d then planted a hypnotic suggestion in him which left him vulnerable to further mischief—and further exploitation.
She was particularly enjoying bedeviling this mark. First, he was a man, and with her troubles with faithless and felonious men over the years, she delighted toying with one. Next, she relished tickling people, and this one was ridiculously ticklish all over, particularly on his surprisingly tender feet. Thanks to the suggestion she'd planted, not only was his will like clay in her hands, but she could reduce him to helpless laughter merely by SAYING, "I am tickling your feet." She'd delightedly done so by phone--at all hours of the day and night--since his visit. She'd listened, chuckling, imagining how ridiculous he must look during these phone calls.
She could have simply phoned him--and compelled him, while he was under the tickling suggestion, to come to HER with a large sum of money. Two reasons dissuaded her from this course of action. First, were he to return to her storefront "Psychic Advisor" setup, he might remember all too well what she'd done to him the first time. More importantly, though, she really LOVED tickling him. It was simply too rich an opportunity (in more than one way) not to continue the con in person at HIS home, where his guard would be completely down, and she could tickle torture him with her cruel, eager hands as much as she wished.
Thus, she'd called him yesterday and wickedly invoked the tickling suggestion, leaving him open to her command that he welcome her alone in his apartment this morning.
She knocked on the door of Chris' apartment. When he answered the door, wearing a grey sweatsuit and moccasins, she said, "Hello! We have an appointment. May I please come in?" She gave him her most disarming smile.
"Uh, you look familiar, but..."
"Thank you." She sailed past him and sat on the distressed, spring-sprung sofa in his living room.
"Sure, but-but I'm waiting for--"
"You are waiting, my dear, for ME." She sat back, kicked off her shoes, and crossed her stocking ankles on the low, scarred, rickety table before her. She gave him a seductive smile and asked, "Are we alone?"
"Uh, yeah, but...," he murmured, distracted by her long toes wiggling under her nylons. She smirked as he stared, unaware of his unconscious dreamy smile. She thought, "You are SO transparent, little mark. It's ALL you can do to resist tickling my toes, no? Hehhehheh. Smug bastard, what I'm about to do to YOU!"
She winked up at him and asked, "'Still don't know who I am?"
Wrenching his eyes from her lively toes, he met her gaze and wrinkled his brow, chuckling, "Hehheh! Should I?" His fingertips were itching to tickle this impertinent woman's stocking feet. Instead, he pointed at her dangling ID. "You with the City? What? Finally following up on my complaint against my lousy landlord?"
"Well," she smiled, slyly, "I AM here to secure a...ah...fee for...uh...services from you."
"Fee?" He sat upon the spotted armrest next to her. "Fee for services?" Smiling knowingly down at her, he said, "So, THAT's it, huh?" He nudged her shoes with the toe of his moccasin. Surveying her from improbably blond head to wiggling toes, he sneered, "I'm sure your 'services' are fine, honey, but if you think I'm paying, well...that's so funny, you see me laughing." He chuckled, dryly. "Hehheh."
Eyes narrowing over a brittle smile, she retorted, "I certainly WILL see you laughing. AND you WILL pay." She sucked in a sharp breath. "I AM TICKLING YOUR FEET."
Caught flatfooted, wide-eyed Chris giggled in amazement, and fell onto the springy cushion beside her. Despite his moccasins, his touchy feet felt as if they were being mercilessly tickled all over by long fingernails. Unsurprised by his sudden amusement, Malka settled back with her arms outstretched on the couch. "Serves him RIGHT!" she thought. He struggled to withhold his laughter, but she knew it was futile.
Sure enough, within a minute, he was laughing heartily, head thrown back, eyes shut, while he stamped his moccasins ineffectually. Amidst his guffaws, he weakly protested, "HEEHEEHEE--How?--AHHAHAHA--Stop--OOOHHOHOHO--No--OHHAHAHAAAAAA!"
After a few minutes of coolly watching his hilarity, she decided it was time for even MORE fun, intoning, "I STOP." Chris, sweaty, teary, and panting, trailed off laughing. She stood over him and lifted her crystal pendant out from where it dangled under her blouse and between her breasts. She flashed the crystal into Chris' barely-focused eyes. He only had time to mutter, "W-what's that?" before falling into a closed-eye trance. His prior encounter with her crystal made him immediately susceptible to it.
"Mine is the only voice you hear," Malka commanded, looming over him. "You will obey me completely. When I am in your presence, you will treat me as your guest. You will allow me to tickle you. You may verbally protest--a little--but you cannot physically stop me nor can you evade me nor leave me. Now, awake."
Seemingly unaware of what's he's experienced--despite his dishevelment--Chris glanced up at Malka with a warm smile. "Oh, hey! Have a seat!" He jumped up and brushed off the soiled middle cushion of the sofa.
Malka nodded, "Thank you, kind sir!" She sat on the sofa and crossed her stocking legs. He sat next to her and glanced at the "credentials" on her chest.
"So, what can I do for you, uh, Sofi-Sofia?" His eyes lingered on the bare flesh revealed by the undone top buttons of her blouse. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Enjoying playing him like a harp, she jiggled her raised stocking foot and wiggled her toes, as she said, "Well, my 'agency' offers a very useful service for, ah, 'clients' such as yourself." She smiled as she considered her toes, allowing them to "accidentally" brush his leg. "I can help you...laugh...at your troubles with your landlord and such."
His eyes moved down to her toes as he absently said, "Uh-huh. So you're like a facilitator for the City, right?" He moved his hand to his left knee, ever so close to her toes scritching in their nylon.
She considered him considering her toes, and answered, "Indeed, I think you'll be tickled to death by what I do to--uh, FOR you." She admired her long, gold-painted fingernails.
"Hehheh," he chuckled. "'Funny you should say 'tickled', 'cause I was just thinking how risky it is for a professional like yourself to slip off your shoes in a stranger's apartment. He might do THIS!" He reached over to skim his fingertips on the ball of her foot and down her stocking sole. "Tickle-tickle. Hehheh."
"OH!" she yelped, yanking her foot away. "You're SO right. I'll be MORE careful, thank you." She could see that he was tempted sore to reach further over and tickle her again. He was set up perfectly for her play. "But, I think that we should get down to business and...uh, explore YOUR situation."
"What?" he asked absently, obviously wondering how much he could get away with this social welfare lady. "Oh...sure. Whatever." He wondered if holding her shoes hostage could gain him another tickle. "You know my situation?"
"VERY well," she assured him, rubbing her hands together and flexing her long, strong fingers. "Right now, you're in a very TICKLISH situation."
He had barely registered that when she promptly reached out with ten eager fingers and clutched his ribs. "Tickle-tickle-tickle!"
"Hey! Hahaha! Dohon't! Nahahaot there!" he yelped, leaning back but seeming unable to deter her in the least.
"Ooooo, are YOU tick-a-lish? Hehhehheh!" She dug her strong fingers deeply between his ribs, and he laughed louder, absolutely defenseless against her. With the seeming strength of a soft noodle, he vainly flailed at her hands as he collapsed into giggles. "Heeheehehhehhehhehstophehhehhehpleasehehhehhee!"
In turn, she couldn't help giggling, "Awwwwwwwheheheheheheheheh!" He was HILARIOUS! Driven to tickle him even more fiercely, she teased, "Tickle-tickle-tickle-tickle! You can't do a THING to stop me, CAN you, silly man? Tickle-tickle-tiiiiih-kiiiihl!"
He was lost to laughter now. "HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! DOHOHOHON'T! AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHASTAHAHAHAHAHAPHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAA!"
Chris was soon rocking and rolling so much under Malka's energetic rib-tickling that he fell off the sofa, landing at her stocking feet. "So, you think THAT'S going to save you, weak man?" She began to dig hard between his ribs with her long, strong and flexible toes. "My toes can tickle yoooou, tooooo! Tickle you, tiiiiiiiih-cuuuuuhkle yooouuuuu toooooooo! Hehhehhehheh."
Red-faced and hoarse with laughter, Chris was bouncing on his butt. He'd kicked off the moccasin from his grey sweat-socked right foot while the other barely clung to his twitching toes. His hands reached for her stocking feet, but hardly kept her toes from tormenting his supremely touchy sides. Unaware of how she'd programmed him, he was terrified as much as turned-on by the tickling: terrified because he couldn't stop her or get away from her; turned-on because he couldn't deny the thrill of being the playful object of an older, attractive woman, even it was embarrassing to be made to laugh like an idiot. How could he stop her? Did he WANT to stop her?
"Nooohehhehheh! Gehehheht awaaaaaay! UHHUHUHUHHUHUHStophehstop itnowheeheestopeetheeheeAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!"
Malka giggled as she dug her strong, stocking toes into his sides and wiggled them maliciously. It was SO ridiculous, tickling a guy WITH her toes, that it made HER laugh as much as it gave her a delicious sense of power. All this FUN just from TICKLING! It was TOO crazy! She revelled even more when she noticed the excitement building under his sweatpants. How much more could she play with his head if she overheated him but kept him from climax?
She pushed the rickety table over and pounced upon him. Straddling his laughter-wracked form, she grabbed the bottoms of his sweatpants and deftly pulled them off his weakly-raised legs. Now she could easily see how long she could tickle him without losing her edge.
Immediately she slid her hands under his shirt and, with her fierce fingers, began to tickle all over his middle: walking her long-nailed fingertips up his sides, snaking them way up under his arms, sliding them torturously down to pinch his hips, scraping them across to knead his tummy, and marching them back up to poke maliciously between his ribs. The look on her face was one of fiendish intent, even as she kept a prudent eye to his lengthening excitement.
After a burst of high-pitched hilarity, he settled into complete but almost silent merriment, clearly reduced by terror and thrill and tenacious tickling into total collapse, peppered by giggles and gasps.
"Such a ree-dee-coo-lus-lee tick-a-lish man!" Malka teased in a menacing sing-song. "I could tickle you to DEATH!" (At that, he managed a whimpered "no" amidst his forced amusement.) "I think I WILL tickle you to death! Tickle-tickle-tickle-tickle-tickle!" She dug her fingers into his ribs until he was begging in a mix of hiccups and hilarity. He could neither fight her off or crawl away from her. He did, however, inadvertently poke her side with the toes of his socked right foot.
She yelped and stopped tickling him. She chuckled, "Hehheh. C'mere!" and grabbed his right ankle firmly. He couldn't summon the will to kick her away, so she easily dragged him around, pulling his foot onto her lap as she sat on the couch. She chirped, “Ahhh! I remember where you’re REALLY ticklish!" (He gasped and murmured "no.") She tsked, "Let's get rid of this." She pulled off his sweat sock and tossed it into his face. Now, she cruelly cooed over his soft pale bare foot, blowing on his toes. “Yes, I remember your little piggies, you 'big strong' man! They’re VE-RY ticklish!” He had softened a bit. She'd take care of that.
“Noohehhehheh,” he wanly protested, exploding into embarrassed giggles even before her long, fiendish nails touched his toes. “Oh, yes!” she assured him, as she pulled back his desperate toes and fluttered the tips of her nails lightly under them. “Tic...kle...tic...kle...tic...kle!” She then began raking his sole with her nails. "Tiiiiiiiiiiiiic...kaaaaaaaaaaaaal!"
Outside of his foot reflexively reacting to her nails, Chris seems incapable of yanking himself from her grasp. He resumed laughing himself sick, yet he couldn't kick free. Her own stocking feet were within his reach, but he couldn't muster the will to retaliate. The combination, however, of the tantalizing nearness of HER feet and her fiendish torturing of HIS fueled his terror AND the tension between his legs fabulously.
Malka noticed his renewed "interest" right away, taking care to see how a stroke down his sole, or a scratch on his arch, or a pinch of his toes revved his motor. Humming contentedly, she tickled his helpless foot with her nails for long, diverting minutes.
When, in his hazy hilarity, his left foot landed in her lap, she stopped tickling long enough to grab it. She snickered, "Hehhehheh. Let's have even MORE fun!" She yanked off his moccasin and tossed it away. She pulled off his sock and dropped it with the other on his face, making him sputter as he giggled. He watched helplessly as she sandwiched his ankles between her ample thighs. She fluttered her long nails next to his tender bare soles and leered at him. "Twice as nice!"
His eyes had cleared enough to meet her gaze with dismay, as he shivered and croaked, "No...wait...!"
Singsonging "Tickle-tickle" over-and-over, she scrabbled her nails all over his bare feet, from tender toes to rough soles. His toes spasmed and his feet flailed, but he could not stop her nor could he get away. Further filled with the terror of the tickle-trapped and perversely excited beyond reason, he cried with laughter.
"AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!"
Malka was merciless. Taking her sweet time, she tickled his feet with cunning variety. Sometimes, she dragged five nails up and down his soles. Then, she'd feather his arches with just the tips. She would dig just one nail into the ball of one foot, then stroke the outer edges of his soles with two nails each. She scraped his harder heels and spidered the softer skin just above them. She drew tickly figure-8s and tormented his toes. And all the while, below her own toes snaked under his shirt and poked his hairy belly.
Relishing this torture, she giggled, “Hehhehheh! SUCH tick-a-lish feet for a beeg, stwong man! Tickletickletickle! Will she EVER stop tickling yoooouuu? Hehhehhehheeeeeh!” She had to be careful, though. He was SO ticklish that she REALLY might tickle him to DEATH. His face was fiercely red and he was almost choking with laughter. Of course, judging by the excitement between his legs, he seemed as likely to come as go. Still, she didn't want to kill the golden goose. Not when there was easy money to be had...
With a sigh, she stopped tickling him and quickly flashed her crystal pendant into his tear-filled eyes again.
"Sleep, sleep, ticklish man." she soothingly intoned, repeating it until his eyes closed and his breath slowed and his body (all of it) slackened. "Mine is the only voice you hear. You will tell me the TRUTH and do EXACTLY as I command." She resumed lightly tickling his foot. "How much money do you have here?"
"Hehhehheh. Maybe thirty bucks hehhehheh," he snickered under closed eyes.
"Hmm. Not enough," she told him, digging her nails into his sole. When he gasped and chuckled, she stopped and announced, "Listen, dopey. When I tell you to awake, you will put on your sloppy clothes...make sure you have what you need to make an ATM withdrawal...and go out and then return with, oh, $400 for me as soon as possible. You will happily permit me to wait for you here. When you come back, hehheh, you'll permit me more...fun. Hehhehheh. For NOW, react to being tickled as you normally do. Awake."
Chris blinked and was embarrassed to find himself sitting pantsless on the floor, with his bare feet in his visitor's lap. She smiled at him and gave his toes a tickle. He cried, "Hey! What th--?" and yanked his feet away. Bewildered, he gathered his scattered pants, socks and moccasins. As he put them on, he said, apologetically, "I'm sorry about this. I hate to be rude, but I've got to go out. Wlll you be OK here?"
"Of course," she beamed, relaxing back on the couch. After he'd hastily righted the low, rickety table, she crossed her stocking ankles upon it, and, smiling seductively, wiggled her toes. He gave her toes a double-take, but grabbed his wallet from a kitchen drawer and stumbled to the door. She added, "Don't be long."
He gave her a puzzled look, replying, "Nah. Just--just gotta go a few blocks. There's, uh, beer in the fridge. Brooklyn Microbrew."
"Yum!" she trilled. "Just the thing for ten in the morning."
He donned a leather jacket, and patted the pockets. "Hmph! 'Can't find my phone."
"I'll look for it while you're gone," she offered. "Hurry baaaack!" she crooned, rubbing her stocking feet together so the nylon sang.
Confused by his purposefulness--and fighting the temptation to tickle those feet--he left.
Malka got up to explore the studio apartment. Outside of the rickety coffee table and sofa, which was a convertible, there were a few additional pieces of obviously street-salvaged furniture. Across from the sofa, a turntable rested on a milk crate, surrounded by other crates filled with LPs. A classical guitar, decorated with Adult Swim characters, was propped against its sticker-festooned case between windows looking out at a shadowed brick wall. There were short heaps of dog-eared paperbacks here and there. She grinned when she saw not a few apparently half-century-old sexy novels.
In the tight kitchen, a closed laptop rested on a tiny, wobbly Formica table next to a groaning refrigerator, which held some sports drinks, a few cans of cheap beer, and a couple of bottles of the fancy local brew Chris mentioned. While the freezer held a few microwave entrees, the only other edibles in the fridge were in a couple of droopy Chinese take-out cartons, which looked like they'd become iced to the back wall. On the floor beside it were a couple of partial suitcases of the cheap beer.
"'Idiot obviously doesn't know what to do with his money," she sniffed. "I'll use it MUCH better."
She brightened when she opened a fly-specked cupboard and found an opened bottle of a surprisingly expensive scotch whisky. "Now THIS is more like it!" She poured a bit into a handy paper cup. It WAS a little early, but the nerd owed her SOME refreshment. She sat back onto the couch, sipping happily. She felt something poking her butt. Reaching between the cushions, she pulled out what she figured was Chris' phone.
She grinned, thinking how many times she'd called him on this and set off the foot tickling suggestion. Sometimes, he must have been in public places like an office or a library. Or maybe he was making love to some other nerd. She chuckled, "Hehheh! He must have been quite a sight laughing like a looney!"
She smirked, imagining how, when he got back with her money, she'd strip him completely and REALLY tickle torture his silly ass all over. This was SO much fun!
She contentedly wiggled her toes on the table as she scrolled through the pictures on the phone. She came upon one of a cute naked and vividly tattooed young woman apparently toweling off after a shower. "Naughty, naughty," Malka giggled.
A key turned in the front door. "That was quick," she thought, pleased.
In the open doorway paused a slight young woman whose haircut and clothes made her look boyish. She wasn't much more than 5'. 2", wearing a patched, oversize khaki vest over a white tee with a winking skull saying "Opa!", artfully ripped blue jeans, and sky-blue and white hi-top sneakers with black-markered Greek letters. Many provocative tattoos were revealed where her clothes were not. Finally shutting the door, she approached the sofa. Taking in Malka's extended feet and the whisky bottle on the table, her eyes flashed a challenge.
"Who are you? Where's Chris?"
Malka set her feet on the floor and put the cup on the table. "Ah, he went out for just a few minutes. And you're...?" This girl could be trouble, she thought, especially if she's here when my mark returns with the money.
Reaching out to examine Malka's "credentials," Thena replied, "A friend. Again, you're...?"
"Oh, I'm from, ahem, an agency. Chris is my, ah, client." Malka had to get rid of her somehow. "I'm, ah, providing him a social services consultation. It IS confidential, so if you could come back in, oh, an hour..."
"Client, huh!" Thena was visibly unimpressed. She nudged Malka's kicked-off high heels with the toe of her sneaker. "Chris never told me about dealing with any agency." She picked up the bottle, considered the label, and smirked at Malka. "What are you REALLY here for, lady?"
Malka slipped her shoes on and stood, straightening her skirt and her wig and picking up her shoulder bag. "Really, I, uh, can't discuss his, ah, case with you." She figured it was best to just go. She could always call the nerd and arrange for him to give her the money later.
Thena stepped in front of Malka and held her arms to stop her. "Uh-uh! You're not leaving. We'll BOTH wait for Chris. I want to hear HIS story." She practically pushed Malka back onto the sofa. Then, she sat next to her. As if to prove that she belonged there where Malka did not, Thena loosened the slack laces on her hi-tops and slid her Aegean-blue ankle-socked feet out of them, then crossed her barbed wire-tattooed ankles on the rickety table.
Malka sat back on the sofa and, after a beat, crossed HER stocking ankles back on the distressed table. She had to play this cool, or she'd not only lose the money, but have to fight off this little hellion, who looked like she'd gladly beat her up BEFORE calling 911 on her.
In the awkward silence, Thena scrolled the messages on her phone for word from Chris, while Malka checked Chris' phone for "hers." Thena was idly wiggling the toes of her socks. Malka glanced at them (a couple of tiny toes poking through the blue fabric) while she frantically tried to figure a way out.
She thought, ruefully, "Could this...situation be any MORE...ticklish?"
To be continued...
(I, with my slow productivity, will allow YOU to decide if that's a promise or a vain hope. Let's be optimistic, eh? Tentatively, Part 3 will be predominantly F/F with a strong dose of F/MF.)
*The following F/M--with the barest touch (literally!) of M/F--ticklefest is copyright 2016 by the author. (That and $3 will buy me a cup of coffee at one of the innumerable leading global liquid caffeine vender's locations.)
*If you haven't read its F/M predecessor--or wish to refresh your ticklish memory, I strongly suggest that you read it via the link in red below.
COOCHIE COO CONTINUATION
a sequel to COOCHIE COO CON, posted HERE on the Forum all too long ago
(back when the price of oil was probably three times what it is now--THAT'S how long!)
by Tee Hee Lawrence
Chris, a pale, modestly-built, somewhat scruffy hipster pushing 30, with short wavy brown hair and granny specs, sat in the compact, sunlit kitchen of his friend Thena's Astoria apartment. She was in the shower, robustly rapping in Greek against the EU. He, clad in a worn black leather jacket, white tee, black jeans, and checkerboard Vans, was using his phone to locate the barely-on-the-grid Long island City gallery where a mutual friend was celebrating an exhibition opening that night. His phone roared like a lion.
He reflexively tapped his Bluetooth. "Yeah?"
A smoky-voiced woman asked, "Is this Chris?"
"If you're calling to poll me on the damn election, I won't vote for ANY of the bastards."
"No, haha. I'm calling to tell you that...I AM TICKLING YOUR FEET."
Chris immediately felt long fingernails stroking his soles and under his toes in spite of his socks and shoes. He barked with astonished laughter, as his feet were very touchy for such a wannabe cool sophisticate. "HEEY! Hehhehhehheh--How--hehhehheh--is--hehheh--this--hehhehhahaha--hahappening? Hehhehheh..."
The voice in his ear teased, "OOOOOOOOO! My little dork is STILL SOOOO TICKLISH! Hehhehheh!"
"Hehhehheh...nuhnuh...eeheeheeheehee...n-no-no-no...eeeheehee...stop-stop-hehhehheh...."
He roiled in the chair, stamping his feet to try to forestall the tickling. When that failed, he fought his swelling giggles as he fumblingly struggled to remove his shoes and socks. Barefoot, he still felt the nails relentlessly running up and down his soles and teasing between his toes. By that time, he'd surrendered to helpless laughter.
"HahahanonooooOOOAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"Such a weak and tick-a-lish man, hehhehheh!" teased the voice. "Tickle...tickle...tickle....under your FEEEEEEEET...under your TOOOOOESSSS...tickle...tickle...tihhhhc-kaaaaal!"
"DO-HOHON'T! STAHAHAHOPPIT! AAAAAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"Little man SO smart and SO smug is SOOOOOOOO ticklish!" the voice exulted, reveling in her easy dominance. "Now, listen well, silly man," the voice intoned. "At 9am tomorrow morning, you will wait for me alone in your apartment. You will tell no one about this. You will consciously forget receiving this call after it ends."
Vigorously toweling her short hair, jet black with Aegean-blue highlights, Thena, wrapped in a Greek flag bath towel, padded into the kitchen. Baby-faced and waif-like in her mid-20s, she (over)compensated with a salty demeanor, butch haircut, copious piercings, even more tatts, and a Salvation Army wardrobe. "What's so funny, idiot?"
Vainly fighting against the tickling, he tried to focus on and reply to his fiery friend, who stood before him, smirking. She allowed the flag to fall, imperiously setting her hands on her trim hips and tapping a bare foot impatiently, growling, "You're high, aren't you? And I'll bet--you PIG--you didn't save ANY for ME!"
As if to confirm her suspicions, he tumbled off the chair, landing laughing on the linoleum. Normally, the sight of Thena in her attractive altogether would have had his complete attention. But, he was literally SO tickled that he was laughably incapable of admiring her body or minding her words.
"And what's THIS?" She kicked at his strewn shoes and socks. "Makin' a mess?"
"Hehhehhenuhnuhno," he protested before seeming to find her disgusted expression even more hilarious. "AHHAHAHAHAnoHAHAHAHAnuhnnuhnoHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!"
Thena screeched, "Will you SHUT...UP? Stop laughing!"
At that moment, the voice in his ear announced, "I STOP." She ended the call.
Chris was bewildered to find himself, barefoot and breathless, sitting on Thena's kitchen floor, with her naked and glowering over him. His sides ached, and his feet tingled. He smiled sheepishly at her, and said, "Er...hi!"
She swallowed a tirade, sighed, and instead, dripping with faux sweetness, asked, "Did you at least get the address of the gallery, baby?"
He staggered to his feet and picked up his phone to show her the gallery's homepage. She resumed drying her hair, and muttered, "Put your shoes on, laughing boy, or we'll be late." Greek flag over her shoulder, she padded into her shoebox of a bedroom to get dressed.
**********
The next morning, Malka exited a cab in front of a small, nondescript Williamsburg apartment building. “So this is where my ticklish mark lives, huh,” she thought, smiling.
The mature, lustrous olive-skinned, generously-figured woman was wearing a navy blazer, white blouse, navy knee-length skirt, tan nylons, and navy high heels. She made a point of dressing in a conservative, professional manner when she went out on house calls to meet clients for psychic readings. She even wore a lanyard with a picture ID for "Mrs. Sofia Starni" of “Municipal Social Services,” which Milena, one of her clever, college-age daughters, had fabricated for her.
She had found these house calls to be more lucrative than business at the storefront, which her younger sister was minding this morning. Her clients, almost always women, tended to be less guarded when she met them in their homes. Thus, they were usually more generous in their remunerations when her readings assured them of future love, wealth, and happiness, or warned them of approaching bad luck which could be expiated by entrusting a large sum to her.
Because this visit involved a particularly ticklish con, however, she had also pinned her shining, straight, long raven hair, streaked with silver, in a tight coil, and had disguised it under a generous wavy, dark blond wig. She was also wearing dark, reflective sunglasses, and had removed all of her customary, copious jewelry except for her gold wedding band, a thin gold anklet under nylon, and a simple gold neck chain, from which hung a pendant, hidden under her blouse.
She was confident that this house call would be a particular success, even if her “client” was not consciously expecting her. She had, a few weeks earlier, given him a very special reading late one night at her storefront. Discovering his hilarious weakness, she, her sister, and her two college-age daughters had taken advantage of his drunkenness to trap and tickle him out of several hundred dollars. She’d then planted a hypnotic suggestion in him which left him vulnerable to further mischief—and further exploitation.
She was particularly enjoying bedeviling this mark. First, he was a man, and with her troubles with faithless and felonious men over the years, she delighted toying with one. Next, she relished tickling people, and this one was ridiculously ticklish all over, particularly on his surprisingly tender feet. Thanks to the suggestion she'd planted, not only was his will like clay in her hands, but she could reduce him to helpless laughter merely by SAYING, "I am tickling your feet." She'd delightedly done so by phone--at all hours of the day and night--since his visit. She'd listened, chuckling, imagining how ridiculous he must look during these phone calls.
She could have simply phoned him--and compelled him, while he was under the tickling suggestion, to come to HER with a large sum of money. Two reasons dissuaded her from this course of action. First, were he to return to her storefront "Psychic Advisor" setup, he might remember all too well what she'd done to him the first time. More importantly, though, she really LOVED tickling him. It was simply too rich an opportunity (in more than one way) not to continue the con in person at HIS home, where his guard would be completely down, and she could tickle torture him with her cruel, eager hands as much as she wished.
Thus, she'd called him yesterday and wickedly invoked the tickling suggestion, leaving him open to her command that he welcome her alone in his apartment this morning.
She knocked on the door of Chris' apartment. When he answered the door, wearing a grey sweatsuit and moccasins, she said, "Hello! We have an appointment. May I please come in?" She gave him her most disarming smile.
"Uh, you look familiar, but..."
"Thank you." She sailed past him and sat on the distressed, spring-sprung sofa in his living room.
"Sure, but-but I'm waiting for--"
"You are waiting, my dear, for ME." She sat back, kicked off her shoes, and crossed her stocking ankles on the low, scarred, rickety table before her. She gave him a seductive smile and asked, "Are we alone?"
"Uh, yeah, but...," he murmured, distracted by her long toes wiggling under her nylons. She smirked as he stared, unaware of his unconscious dreamy smile. She thought, "You are SO transparent, little mark. It's ALL you can do to resist tickling my toes, no? Hehhehheh. Smug bastard, what I'm about to do to YOU!"
She winked up at him and asked, "'Still don't know who I am?"
Wrenching his eyes from her lively toes, he met her gaze and wrinkled his brow, chuckling, "Hehheh! Should I?" His fingertips were itching to tickle this impertinent woman's stocking feet. Instead, he pointed at her dangling ID. "You with the City? What? Finally following up on my complaint against my lousy landlord?"
"Well," she smiled, slyly, "I AM here to secure a...ah...fee for...uh...services from you."
"Fee?" He sat upon the spotted armrest next to her. "Fee for services?" Smiling knowingly down at her, he said, "So, THAT's it, huh?" He nudged her shoes with the toe of his moccasin. Surveying her from improbably blond head to wiggling toes, he sneered, "I'm sure your 'services' are fine, honey, but if you think I'm paying, well...that's so funny, you see me laughing." He chuckled, dryly. "Hehheh."
Eyes narrowing over a brittle smile, she retorted, "I certainly WILL see you laughing. AND you WILL pay." She sucked in a sharp breath. "I AM TICKLING YOUR FEET."
Caught flatfooted, wide-eyed Chris giggled in amazement, and fell onto the springy cushion beside her. Despite his moccasins, his touchy feet felt as if they were being mercilessly tickled all over by long fingernails. Unsurprised by his sudden amusement, Malka settled back with her arms outstretched on the couch. "Serves him RIGHT!" she thought. He struggled to withhold his laughter, but she knew it was futile.
Sure enough, within a minute, he was laughing heartily, head thrown back, eyes shut, while he stamped his moccasins ineffectually. Amidst his guffaws, he weakly protested, "HEEHEEHEE--How?--AHHAHAHA--Stop--OOOHHOHOHO--No--OHHAHAHAAAAAA!"
After a few minutes of coolly watching his hilarity, she decided it was time for even MORE fun, intoning, "I STOP." Chris, sweaty, teary, and panting, trailed off laughing. She stood over him and lifted her crystal pendant out from where it dangled under her blouse and between her breasts. She flashed the crystal into Chris' barely-focused eyes. He only had time to mutter, "W-what's that?" before falling into a closed-eye trance. His prior encounter with her crystal made him immediately susceptible to it.
"Mine is the only voice you hear," Malka commanded, looming over him. "You will obey me completely. When I am in your presence, you will treat me as your guest. You will allow me to tickle you. You may verbally protest--a little--but you cannot physically stop me nor can you evade me nor leave me. Now, awake."
Seemingly unaware of what's he's experienced--despite his dishevelment--Chris glanced up at Malka with a warm smile. "Oh, hey! Have a seat!" He jumped up and brushed off the soiled middle cushion of the sofa.
Malka nodded, "Thank you, kind sir!" She sat on the sofa and crossed her stocking legs. He sat next to her and glanced at the "credentials" on her chest.
"So, what can I do for you, uh, Sofi-Sofia?" His eyes lingered on the bare flesh revealed by the undone top buttons of her blouse. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Enjoying playing him like a harp, she jiggled her raised stocking foot and wiggled her toes, as she said, "Well, my 'agency' offers a very useful service for, ah, 'clients' such as yourself." She smiled as she considered her toes, allowing them to "accidentally" brush his leg. "I can help you...laugh...at your troubles with your landlord and such."
His eyes moved down to her toes as he absently said, "Uh-huh. So you're like a facilitator for the City, right?" He moved his hand to his left knee, ever so close to her toes scritching in their nylon.
She considered him considering her toes, and answered, "Indeed, I think you'll be tickled to death by what I do to--uh, FOR you." She admired her long, gold-painted fingernails.
"Hehheh," he chuckled. "'Funny you should say 'tickled', 'cause I was just thinking how risky it is for a professional like yourself to slip off your shoes in a stranger's apartment. He might do THIS!" He reached over to skim his fingertips on the ball of her foot and down her stocking sole. "Tickle-tickle. Hehheh."
"OH!" she yelped, yanking her foot away. "You're SO right. I'll be MORE careful, thank you." She could see that he was tempted sore to reach further over and tickle her again. He was set up perfectly for her play. "But, I think that we should get down to business and...uh, explore YOUR situation."
"What?" he asked absently, obviously wondering how much he could get away with this social welfare lady. "Oh...sure. Whatever." He wondered if holding her shoes hostage could gain him another tickle. "You know my situation?"
"VERY well," she assured him, rubbing her hands together and flexing her long, strong fingers. "Right now, you're in a very TICKLISH situation."
He had barely registered that when she promptly reached out with ten eager fingers and clutched his ribs. "Tickle-tickle-tickle!"
"Hey! Hahaha! Dohon't! Nahahaot there!" he yelped, leaning back but seeming unable to deter her in the least.
"Ooooo, are YOU tick-a-lish? Hehhehheh!" She dug her strong fingers deeply between his ribs, and he laughed louder, absolutely defenseless against her. With the seeming strength of a soft noodle, he vainly flailed at her hands as he collapsed into giggles. "Heeheehehhehhehhehstophehhehhehpleasehehhehhee!"
In turn, she couldn't help giggling, "Awwwwwwwheheheheheheheheh!" He was HILARIOUS! Driven to tickle him even more fiercely, she teased, "Tickle-tickle-tickle-tickle! You can't do a THING to stop me, CAN you, silly man? Tickle-tickle-tiiiiih-kiiiihl!"
He was lost to laughter now. "HAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! DOHOHOHON'T! AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHASTAHAHAHAHAHAPHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAA!"
Chris was soon rocking and rolling so much under Malka's energetic rib-tickling that he fell off the sofa, landing at her stocking feet. "So, you think THAT'S going to save you, weak man?" She began to dig hard between his ribs with her long, strong and flexible toes. "My toes can tickle yoooou, tooooo! Tickle you, tiiiiiiiih-cuuuuuhkle yooouuuuu toooooooo! Hehhehhehheh."
Red-faced and hoarse with laughter, Chris was bouncing on his butt. He'd kicked off the moccasin from his grey sweat-socked right foot while the other barely clung to his twitching toes. His hands reached for her stocking feet, but hardly kept her toes from tormenting his supremely touchy sides. Unaware of how she'd programmed him, he was terrified as much as turned-on by the tickling: terrified because he couldn't stop her or get away from her; turned-on because he couldn't deny the thrill of being the playful object of an older, attractive woman, even it was embarrassing to be made to laugh like an idiot. How could he stop her? Did he WANT to stop her?
"Nooohehhehheh! Gehehheht awaaaaaay! UHHUHUHUHHUHUHStophehstop itnowheeheestopeetheeheeAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!"
Malka giggled as she dug her strong, stocking toes into his sides and wiggled them maliciously. It was SO ridiculous, tickling a guy WITH her toes, that it made HER laugh as much as it gave her a delicious sense of power. All this FUN just from TICKLING! It was TOO crazy! She revelled even more when she noticed the excitement building under his sweatpants. How much more could she play with his head if she overheated him but kept him from climax?
She pushed the rickety table over and pounced upon him. Straddling his laughter-wracked form, she grabbed the bottoms of his sweatpants and deftly pulled them off his weakly-raised legs. Now she could easily see how long she could tickle him without losing her edge.
Immediately she slid her hands under his shirt and, with her fierce fingers, began to tickle all over his middle: walking her long-nailed fingertips up his sides, snaking them way up under his arms, sliding them torturously down to pinch his hips, scraping them across to knead his tummy, and marching them back up to poke maliciously between his ribs. The look on her face was one of fiendish intent, even as she kept a prudent eye to his lengthening excitement.
After a burst of high-pitched hilarity, he settled into complete but almost silent merriment, clearly reduced by terror and thrill and tenacious tickling into total collapse, peppered by giggles and gasps.
"Such a ree-dee-coo-lus-lee tick-a-lish man!" Malka teased in a menacing sing-song. "I could tickle you to DEATH!" (At that, he managed a whimpered "no" amidst his forced amusement.) "I think I WILL tickle you to death! Tickle-tickle-tickle-tickle-tickle!" She dug her fingers into his ribs until he was begging in a mix of hiccups and hilarity. He could neither fight her off or crawl away from her. He did, however, inadvertently poke her side with the toes of his socked right foot.
She yelped and stopped tickling him. She chuckled, "Hehheh. C'mere!" and grabbed his right ankle firmly. He couldn't summon the will to kick her away, so she easily dragged him around, pulling his foot onto her lap as she sat on the couch. She chirped, “Ahhh! I remember where you’re REALLY ticklish!" (He gasped and murmured "no.") She tsked, "Let's get rid of this." She pulled off his sweat sock and tossed it into his face. Now, she cruelly cooed over his soft pale bare foot, blowing on his toes. “Yes, I remember your little piggies, you 'big strong' man! They’re VE-RY ticklish!” He had softened a bit. She'd take care of that.
“Noohehhehheh,” he wanly protested, exploding into embarrassed giggles even before her long, fiendish nails touched his toes. “Oh, yes!” she assured him, as she pulled back his desperate toes and fluttered the tips of her nails lightly under them. “Tic...kle...tic...kle...tic...kle!” She then began raking his sole with her nails. "Tiiiiiiiiiiiiic...kaaaaaaaaaaaaal!"
Outside of his foot reflexively reacting to her nails, Chris seems incapable of yanking himself from her grasp. He resumed laughing himself sick, yet he couldn't kick free. Her own stocking feet were within his reach, but he couldn't muster the will to retaliate. The combination, however, of the tantalizing nearness of HER feet and her fiendish torturing of HIS fueled his terror AND the tension between his legs fabulously.
Malka noticed his renewed "interest" right away, taking care to see how a stroke down his sole, or a scratch on his arch, or a pinch of his toes revved his motor. Humming contentedly, she tickled his helpless foot with her nails for long, diverting minutes.
When, in his hazy hilarity, his left foot landed in her lap, she stopped tickling long enough to grab it. She snickered, "Hehhehheh. Let's have even MORE fun!" She yanked off his moccasin and tossed it away. She pulled off his sock and dropped it with the other on his face, making him sputter as he giggled. He watched helplessly as she sandwiched his ankles between her ample thighs. She fluttered her long nails next to his tender bare soles and leered at him. "Twice as nice!"
His eyes had cleared enough to meet her gaze with dismay, as he shivered and croaked, "No...wait...!"
Singsonging "Tickle-tickle" over-and-over, she scrabbled her nails all over his bare feet, from tender toes to rough soles. His toes spasmed and his feet flailed, but he could not stop her nor could he get away. Further filled with the terror of the tickle-trapped and perversely excited beyond reason, he cried with laughter.
"AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAA!"
Malka was merciless. Taking her sweet time, she tickled his feet with cunning variety. Sometimes, she dragged five nails up and down his soles. Then, she'd feather his arches with just the tips. She would dig just one nail into the ball of one foot, then stroke the outer edges of his soles with two nails each. She scraped his harder heels and spidered the softer skin just above them. She drew tickly figure-8s and tormented his toes. And all the while, below her own toes snaked under his shirt and poked his hairy belly.
Relishing this torture, she giggled, “Hehhehheh! SUCH tick-a-lish feet for a beeg, stwong man! Tickletickletickle! Will she EVER stop tickling yoooouuu? Hehhehhehheeeeeh!” She had to be careful, though. He was SO ticklish that she REALLY might tickle him to DEATH. His face was fiercely red and he was almost choking with laughter. Of course, judging by the excitement between his legs, he seemed as likely to come as go. Still, she didn't want to kill the golden goose. Not when there was easy money to be had...
With a sigh, she stopped tickling him and quickly flashed her crystal pendant into his tear-filled eyes again.
"Sleep, sleep, ticklish man." she soothingly intoned, repeating it until his eyes closed and his breath slowed and his body (all of it) slackened. "Mine is the only voice you hear. You will tell me the TRUTH and do EXACTLY as I command." She resumed lightly tickling his foot. "How much money do you have here?"
"Hehhehheh. Maybe thirty bucks hehhehheh," he snickered under closed eyes.
"Hmm. Not enough," she told him, digging her nails into his sole. When he gasped and chuckled, she stopped and announced, "Listen, dopey. When I tell you to awake, you will put on your sloppy clothes...make sure you have what you need to make an ATM withdrawal...and go out and then return with, oh, $400 for me as soon as possible. You will happily permit me to wait for you here. When you come back, hehheh, you'll permit me more...fun. Hehhehheh. For NOW, react to being tickled as you normally do. Awake."
Chris blinked and was embarrassed to find himself sitting pantsless on the floor, with his bare feet in his visitor's lap. She smiled at him and gave his toes a tickle. He cried, "Hey! What th--?" and yanked his feet away. Bewildered, he gathered his scattered pants, socks and moccasins. As he put them on, he said, apologetically, "I'm sorry about this. I hate to be rude, but I've got to go out. Wlll you be OK here?"
"Of course," she beamed, relaxing back on the couch. After he'd hastily righted the low, rickety table, she crossed her stocking ankles upon it, and, smiling seductively, wiggled her toes. He gave her toes a double-take, but grabbed his wallet from a kitchen drawer and stumbled to the door. She added, "Don't be long."
He gave her a puzzled look, replying, "Nah. Just--just gotta go a few blocks. There's, uh, beer in the fridge. Brooklyn Microbrew."
"Yum!" she trilled. "Just the thing for ten in the morning."
He donned a leather jacket, and patted the pockets. "Hmph! 'Can't find my phone."
"I'll look for it while you're gone," she offered. "Hurry baaaack!" she crooned, rubbing her stocking feet together so the nylon sang.
Confused by his purposefulness--and fighting the temptation to tickle those feet--he left.
Malka got up to explore the studio apartment. Outside of the rickety coffee table and sofa, which was a convertible, there were a few additional pieces of obviously street-salvaged furniture. Across from the sofa, a turntable rested on a milk crate, surrounded by other crates filled with LPs. A classical guitar, decorated with Adult Swim characters, was propped against its sticker-festooned case between windows looking out at a shadowed brick wall. There were short heaps of dog-eared paperbacks here and there. She grinned when she saw not a few apparently half-century-old sexy novels.
In the tight kitchen, a closed laptop rested on a tiny, wobbly Formica table next to a groaning refrigerator, which held some sports drinks, a few cans of cheap beer, and a couple of bottles of the fancy local brew Chris mentioned. While the freezer held a few microwave entrees, the only other edibles in the fridge were in a couple of droopy Chinese take-out cartons, which looked like they'd become iced to the back wall. On the floor beside it were a couple of partial suitcases of the cheap beer.
"'Idiot obviously doesn't know what to do with his money," she sniffed. "I'll use it MUCH better."
She brightened when she opened a fly-specked cupboard and found an opened bottle of a surprisingly expensive scotch whisky. "Now THIS is more like it!" She poured a bit into a handy paper cup. It WAS a little early, but the nerd owed her SOME refreshment. She sat back onto the couch, sipping happily. She felt something poking her butt. Reaching between the cushions, she pulled out what she figured was Chris' phone.
She grinned, thinking how many times she'd called him on this and set off the foot tickling suggestion. Sometimes, he must have been in public places like an office or a library. Or maybe he was making love to some other nerd. She chuckled, "Hehheh! He must have been quite a sight laughing like a looney!"
She smirked, imagining how, when he got back with her money, she'd strip him completely and REALLY tickle torture his silly ass all over. This was SO much fun!
She contentedly wiggled her toes on the table as she scrolled through the pictures on the phone. She came upon one of a cute naked and vividly tattooed young woman apparently toweling off after a shower. "Naughty, naughty," Malka giggled.
A key turned in the front door. "That was quick," she thought, pleased.
In the open doorway paused a slight young woman whose haircut and clothes made her look boyish. She wasn't much more than 5'. 2", wearing a patched, oversize khaki vest over a white tee with a winking skull saying "Opa!", artfully ripped blue jeans, and sky-blue and white hi-top sneakers with black-markered Greek letters. Many provocative tattoos were revealed where her clothes were not. Finally shutting the door, she approached the sofa. Taking in Malka's extended feet and the whisky bottle on the table, her eyes flashed a challenge.
"Who are you? Where's Chris?"
Malka set her feet on the floor and put the cup on the table. "Ah, he went out for just a few minutes. And you're...?" This girl could be trouble, she thought, especially if she's here when my mark returns with the money.
Reaching out to examine Malka's "credentials," Thena replied, "A friend. Again, you're...?"
"Oh, I'm from, ahem, an agency. Chris is my, ah, client." Malka had to get rid of her somehow. "I'm, ah, providing him a social services consultation. It IS confidential, so if you could come back in, oh, an hour..."
"Client, huh!" Thena was visibly unimpressed. She nudged Malka's kicked-off high heels with the toe of her sneaker. "Chris never told me about dealing with any agency." She picked up the bottle, considered the label, and smirked at Malka. "What are you REALLY here for, lady?"
Malka slipped her shoes on and stood, straightening her skirt and her wig and picking up her shoulder bag. "Really, I, uh, can't discuss his, ah, case with you." She figured it was best to just go. She could always call the nerd and arrange for him to give her the money later.
Thena stepped in front of Malka and held her arms to stop her. "Uh-uh! You're not leaving. We'll BOTH wait for Chris. I want to hear HIS story." She practically pushed Malka back onto the sofa. Then, she sat next to her. As if to prove that she belonged there where Malka did not, Thena loosened the slack laces on her hi-tops and slid her Aegean-blue ankle-socked feet out of them, then crossed her barbed wire-tattooed ankles on the rickety table.
Malka sat back on the sofa and, after a beat, crossed HER stocking ankles back on the distressed table. She had to play this cool, or she'd not only lose the money, but have to fight off this little hellion, who looked like she'd gladly beat her up BEFORE calling 911 on her.
In the awkward silence, Thena scrolled the messages on her phone for word from Chris, while Malka checked Chris' phone for "hers." Thena was idly wiggling the toes of her socks. Malka glanced at them (a couple of tiny toes poking through the blue fabric) while she frantically tried to figure a way out.
She thought, ruefully, "Could this...situation be any MORE...ticklish?"
To be continued...
(I, with my slow productivity, will allow YOU to decide if that's a promise or a vain hope. Let's be optimistic, eh? Tentatively, Part 3 will be predominantly F/F with a strong dose of F/MF.)
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So good to see you exercising your creative muscles again, my friend. Well done!
