Be Taught or Be Tickled

The one thing I've always been is a fair man. I'm a good guy, but I'm the type who needs to bring order to chaos. I was raised that way, that's why my employer loves me, and that's all I know how to be. It was much easier before I married the woman of my dreams. Despite how happy I am now, before I met her, I was happy in another way: everything was ordered the way I wanted, and I flourished.

My wife's name is Melanie. She's 36, but the hottest 36 I've ever seen! She's on the shorter side, with blue eyes, wavy blond hair, and a trim figure. The way her jeans hug her ass drives me wild. Her cute yoga pants clinging to her curves is a thing of beauty. But it wasn't just her looks that smote me; she was smart, funny, and everything a man could want in a woman. I knew I had to marry her.

So, how was this angel available for a middle-aged man? She had a kid: Jessica. Now, don't get me wrong, she's not a horrible kid. But there were always tendencies toward behavior that neither I nor her mother liked. Now she was 18 and had been away at college for her first semester. College that I, her wonderful stepfather, was footing the bill for.

Melanie and I had been happily married for four years, but this last week had been straining me like no other. First, Melanie took my gorgeous Mustang out to run errands, ending up in a fender-bender at the grocery store. My pristine car was now damaged goods, and she was the one at fault. There went my insurance costs! Plus, that car was slated to go to Jessica as a gift in a year or two; she had always loved the Mustang.

Then, two days later, I received word from Jessica's college: terrible grades, bad behavior, partying, boys, booze, disrespect, tardiness, absences, and every other offense was read off to me. These women were costing me a fortune, and I knew order would have to be restored. It was time to do what I did best.

"What are we going to do?" Melanie asked, after she got off the phone herself with the college. "She's out of control! It's amazing they haven't kicked her out yet."

"Well, I had to grease some skids," I admitted. "They didn't want her back next semester."

"She'll be home tomorrow," she said, worriedly. " We have to talk some sense into her!"

Little did my wife know, but I was way ahead of her. I knew talking yet again to her daughter wasn't going to help matters. Jessica thought she was an adult now. She had tasted freedom for the first time and wanted to live it up on my dime. The four years of talks we had only led to this irresponsible behavior; the time for talk was over.

So, what could I do to bring her to her senses? We couldn't ground an 18-year-old. I wasn't going stop paying for her education; my stepdaughter would have the best. It was useless to take away her car during her break, as she had any number of friends who would simply pick her up. I wished I could have just spanked some sense into her.

Spanking... That made me ponder: what did Jessica hate or fear along the lines of spanking? Something came to mind: being tickled. If one of her friends had even attempted to tickle her as a kid, she'd scream bloody murder. Perhaps physical punishment was frowned upon these days, but tickling wasn't so severe, was it? It wasn't damaging, and it didn't leave any marks. I would spin it as if she had an ultimatum: her funds would be cutoff, her newfound lifestyle would be over, she'd have to live under our roof forever, or she could take a tickling from her mother and I. I knew the choice she'd reluctantly make.

I did some research online, finding site after site about tickle torture. Methods, tools, techniques, and ways to restrain the victim flooded the internet. I was glad I looked before I made a little shopping trip; now I knew exactly what to look for.

"No, honey. Talking to her isn't going to help," I said, taking a plastic shopping bag from the counter and emptying its contents onto the kitchen table.

Out fell a bag of feathers, an electric toothbrush, a bottle of baby oil, and a hairbrush. The second bag I took, my wife watching in confusion, was turned over; a coil of green rope and a Wartenberg wheel tumbled onto the table.

"What the heck is all this?" my wife asked, her eyes darting over everything. "Is that bag from the adult store?"

"This," I said, wadding up the bag and sticking it in my back pocket, "is how we're going to teach your daughter a lesson."

"Henry," she sighed (she does that when she doesn't get me), "what are you talking about?"

"Jessica doesn't care what we have to say," I explained bluntly. "Our lectures work for a few days, and then she's in trouble again. She isn't afraid to do what she wants, when she wants. And now she's doing it with with my money! So, this is how we are going to punish her."

"With a brush?" Melanie asked, picking it up. "And a toothbrush? How are feathers a punishment, dear?"

"We're going to tickle her," I stated. "She hates, hates, hates being tickled. We're going to tickle her straight."

"You've finally lost it," she laughed, tossing the brush down. "You want to tickle Jessica... And what, tie her up, too?"

"Of course," I said. "That's what makes it such a punishment, if you go by what they say online."

"You are not tying up and tickling my daughter!" my wife chuckled. "Gosh, you're so weird sometimes."

"Melanie," I said, coming close and putting my arms around her waist, "WE will tie up and tickle your daughter. It's about the one thing we haven't tried yet. I thought about spanking her, but that seemed wrong."

"Spanking is out of the question, mister," she quipped lovingly. "And she isn't going to let us tickle her, you dork. As you said, she hates it.

"My dear," I whispered, kissing her softly, "I'm going to give her an ultimatum."


The order that had been my house while Jessica had been away was destroyed the moment she got home. She had bags everywhere, cluttering the living room. The quiet I had become accustomed to was now filled with loud phone conversations, blaring music, and ridiculous television shows playing in the background. I had a headache in the first fifteen minutes!

"Sit," said Melanie, after her daughter had been home and settled for a bit.

"What's up?" Jessica asked, plopping into her seat at the kitchen table, texting on her phone.

"How about, you're failing!" I threw out there.

"Well," she said, not bothering to look up, "college is a lot harder than you think. I'll do better next semester."

I glared at her, beyond irritated. How could such a sweet-looking girl irk me so? She sat curled in her chair, her straight blond hair cascading down to her shoulders. Her big brown eyes were pretty as she stared at her phone, held by perfectly manicured hands. Her hair was nicely cut and highlighted, and I'm sure the most expensive makeup covered her pretty round face. No doubt her jeans and sweater were of some name brand; her little brown boots definitely were. Such a pretty girl, making herself even more pretty with my money. Irksome!

"Don't count on next semester," I said, bluffing. "I think you should be done; my money has been squandered. I say find a job around town."

"What?" she asked, her attention finally grabbed. "What are you talking about?"

"You drank, you partied," I began listing off, "you didn't show up to class, you didn't study. Need I say more?"

"But, that's what everyone does!" she fussed, tossing her phone on the table. "It's college!"

"Wanna go to college? Maybe you should get a job," I retorted. "Put yourself through like we did in the old days. I don't see why I should waste any more of my money on some party animal."

"Mom!" she whined, looking at her mother.

"Henry's right," she played along. "You're wasting money. You should consider moving back home. You could get a retail job or something."

The concern on her cute face was priceless. I knew what was going through her head: what about her new friends? What about the parties and socializing? What about her freedom?

"Retail," she spit the word out. "Put myself through college working retail?"

"Yeah, it's what people who live in the real world do," I quipped.

"Sorry, honey," my wife said, "but maybe college isn't for you. Perhaps in a few years when you're more mature..."

"Your mother and I discussed this," I said, "and we decided to give you a choice: a way to prove to us that if you continue on at school, you'll reign in your behavior, buckle down, and get to work."

"What choice?" she asked, her face hopeful.

This was it, I thought to myself. How bad did she want to keep her freedom? A retail job had always been out of the question in her mind; she considered any menial job an insult to her intelligence. What would she do?

"Drop out and work in town," I offered, "or, go back next semester with the promise of earning A's or B's."

"I'll go ba—" she started.

"Shh!" I cut her off. "If you get any C's or lower, you have to accept the punishment your mother and I agreed upon."

"What's the punishment?" she asked, more amused than worried.

"You'll see before you head back to school," I answered. "We're going to demonstrate. So, what'll it be?"

"Obviously, going back to school," she smiled, looked relieved. "I'll get good grades, I promise."

"I hope so," I said, walking away from the conversation.

I knew she thought she had won this little argument. She didn't even really care what this "punishment" was; she never thought it would be enforced. I admit, I had been wrapped around her little finger since we met, but that was just my kind heart. I wanted the best for the child of the woman I loved. I still did, and I was going to do whatever it took to make sure she did well next semester.


Jessica had probably forgotten about our conversation by the next day. Her winter break shot by, and before we knew it, she was preparing to head back. Now was the time I had waited for; I wanted this lesson to be fresh in her mind when she got back to school. It was a Friday night, and after the weekend, she'd be off again.

While she had been in her bathroom for the previous hour preparing for a night out, I had been doing some preparing of my own. In our spare bedroom was the massage table I'd use to pamper my lovely wife. I elevated the back of it to a sitting position, slightly reclined. On a TV tray table, I arranged my various implements I had purchased. I sent Melanie to venture into her daughter's dresser to retrieve her little blue bikini. Tossing the swimsuit and rope onto the massage table, all was set. I closed the door and headed downstairs.

Eventually, Jessica made her way down from her bathroom, ready for a night on the town. She must have been trying to impress someone, as she was fully made up and looking quite pretty. She came to a stop at the bottom of the steps, seeing her mother and I both standing there, waiting for her.

"What?" she asked, a quizzical look on her face. "I told you I had plans tonight."

"Yes, but they're gonna have to wait a bit," Melanie told her.

"Remember that punishment we discussed a while back?" I asked. "Tonight's the demonstration."

"Punishment?" she questioned. "You weren't serious, were you? I'm an adult now. You can't just ground me or—"

"We had a deal," I interrupted. "If you want to continue at school, it's all A's or B's. Tonight, you see what the punishment is if you fail make those grades."

"C'mon!" she whined, checking the time on her phone. "I have to be somewhere."

"Upstairs in the spare room," her mother said. "That's where you need to be."

"Okay, what are you guys talking about?" Jessica inquired. "What punishment?"

"Let's go," I said, gesturing the way back upstairs. "You'll see."

With an exasperated sigh and roll of her eyes, the three of us went upstairs. The look on Jessica's face was utter confusion when she entered the room. She raised an eyebrow a bit, cocking her head, unable to workout what was before her.

"Umm..." she said, glancing at the display of tools, along with the rope and bikini on the massage table. "What the heck is this?"

"Change into your swimsuit, dear," her mother told her. "That's part of it."

"What? Why?" demanded Jessica. "You guys are being weird. I have to go meet Ricky soon."

"Then hurry up and get changed," countered my wife. "The sooner we do this, the sooner you can go meet whoever this Ricky is."

"My swimsuit. In January..." Jessica questioned, crossing her arms. "And what's with the rope and all that crap on the table?"

"Time's a-wastin' if you're in a hurry," I said, stepping out of the room with Melanie. "Let us know when you're ready."

I closed the door, my wife and I waiting on the other side. I wondered if she'd really do as we asked, or if she'd be as obstinate as usual. The fact that she wanted to be somewhere soon gave me hope that she would cooperate, despite our request being so odd.

"Alright, I'm changed," she pouted a minute later.

Entering the room, there Jessica stood in her little blue bikini. Her grey woolen socks were still on, but the rest of her clothes lay in a pile on the floor. To say she looked uncomfortable would be an understatement. Rarely did this girl appear self-conscious, but right now I could tell she was embarrassed to be the only one so underdressed.

The girl had filled out perfectly. She was neither too scrawny nor too plump, but both tight and curvy in the right places. Her bosom was held comfortably in her top: ample, yet not spilling out. Her ribs were just visible under her skin, and her little tummy was flat, with a deep, round navel. Her hips lent perfect form, leading down to her shapely, beautiful legs. She was short like her mother, yet in perfect proportion.

"Alright, hop up," I told her, snatching the rope.

With an exaggerated sigh, she lifted herself up. I took her dangling legs, swinging her feet to the end of the table. She reclined against the angled back, watching my every move nervously.

"Really?" she asked, as I took her ankle, slipping off her thick sock. The other quickly followed, leaving her cute feet bared.

With her knees bent, feet flat on the table, I took the green nylon rope. I began to wrap it around her ankles, doing my best to remember how to properly bind someone. I had watched a few videos online, and chose a basic tie I could easily memorize. After a few wraps and knots, her ankles were securely bound together.

With another rope, I took her wrists, crossing them. In moments, they too were secured, though this tie had a length of rope trailing off.

"Hands above your head," I ordered, pulling back her arms. Tying off the length of extra rope to the back of the table, I had her in position.

"Okay, this is really weird," she complained, looking to her mother. Melanie simply watched with a little smirk on her face. Maybe she was opening up to my crazy idea.

"Legs straight," I said, coming to sit on the edge of the table near Jessica's bottom. She straightened her knees, as I took in the predicament my stepdaughter found herself.

"So," I began, "just remember: this is a taste of what's going to happen if you do poorly next semester."

I reached up to her elbows and gently let my fingers graze down the underside of each arm. She flinched a bit, especially when I got to her armpits. I dug my fingers a little deeper into her underarms, giving gentle squeezes in different areas.

"This is the punishment?" she asked, wiggling her shoulders a bit as I explored her underarms. "What, tickling me? I'm not even that ticklish anymore."

To be honest, I was hoping for a bit more of a reaction. But the further down I went, the more uncomfortable she began to look. Continuing down from her pits, I used my thumbs, rolling them over her ribs. I attacked both sides of her simultaneously, jumping from rib to rib as she squirmed a bit more. Her mouth was tightly sealed, as if she didn't want to give me any satisfaction by yelling out. I was pretty confident that the further down her body I went, the more ticklish she's become.

"Ugh!" quietly escaped her when I reached her sides. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Moving to her tummy, I found her muscles flexed as I dug my fingers in, tensed in a vain effort to protect herself. She wiggled like a belly dancer when I poked my finger into her navel, giving it a few quick swirls.

Down her body I moved. When I reached her hips, that's when she started pulling on her ropes, probably wishing like hell that she could use her hands to stop me. Soon she was lifting her bottom off the table, squirming like mad to get her hips away from me. Rolling from side to side, kicking with her bound legs, she finally broke her silence.

"Okay, okay! You can stop now! " she yelled, as I let up, watching her breathe hard and try to compose herself.

"Not ticklish, hm?" I asked, taking each of her thighs with a hand. I used my fingers, quickly digging in, kneading her legs in one spot, then moving randomly to the next.

"Ha ha! Stop... Henry!" she giggled, trying to escape my touch. "That just... It feels weird. I'm not that tick— Oh! Ugh!"

She was slightly panicking when I got to her knees. With little squeezes and pinches, I got her legs kicking and quivering. So, I was forced to hold them down with one hand and tickle her knees, one at a time, with the other.

Hahaha! Wait!" she cried, as I squeezed her kneecaps with my fingertips. "That— Ahahaha! I don't like that!"

My wife observed, a look of amusement on her face. I suppose seeing her stuck up, obstinate, beautiful daughter reduced to a flailing, laughing, desperate damsel was a nice change of pace. Suddenly Jessica wasn't as tough as she thought, and she hated showing weakness.

I eased off again, not wanting to wear her out too soon. Jessica glared at me as she recovered, a bit of malice in her brown eyes. Yes, I thought, seeing that expression, this was going to do the trick!

Snatching the bottle of baby oil, I walked to the foot of the table. Uncapping it, I angled the opening right under her toes, and gave a squeeze; the oil dripped down her soles, leaving shining trails. Setting down the bottle, I began spreading the oil around her feet: the bottoms, tops, and in between each toe.

"Okay, baby oil now?" she gripped, as I coated her. "God, this is so weird..."

Jessica had little feet; she wore a size six. Her toes were short and full, with perfectly pedicured, emerald green nails; they were made all the more beautiful as they gleamed with baby oil. Her soles were flawless: not a rough spot to be seen, nor a callous to be found (I wondered if she'd soon be regretting all those pampering pedicures). She had a nice arch and a perfect, round heel. Indeed, her feet nearly rivaled her mom's, I thought to myself.

"Could you come here, dear?" I asked my wife.

"Of course," she answered, coming to take my place.

Sitting on the edge of the table, I gripped Jessica's shins to hold her legs still. I knew there would be many attempts to kick away, as my wife had pretty, red, vicious little nails that could drive a person crazy.

"Go ahead and give her feet a little tickle," I said. My wife crouched down to eye level with Jessica's soles.

"Mmm..." Jessica groaned, when Melanie began to slide her nails along her skin. She tried to bend her knees to pull her feet away, but I held her strongly to the table. All she could do was wiggle her feet back and forth as her mother's nails began tormenting her.

"Haha! Wait! Hahaha!" she laughed, squirming as her feet were explored. Melanie wiggled her fingers, bringing her nails from Jessica's toes to her heels. They glided, frictionless, across her smooth flesh.

It got interesting when Melanie decided to use her thumbs. Now the poor girl couldn't even wiggle her feet, as Melanie held them stationary, her hands cupped around them. Her thumbs traced agonizingly slow circles on the balls of her daughter's feet. " HAHA! Oh my god! Stop it! Mom!" cried out Jessica. Melanie kept this up for a good minute while her daughter fought against me, screaming and laughing.

"Aww, does that tickle?" taunted her mother. "Why did you lie? These little piggies have always been ticklish."

Okay! Alright! UGH! They're ticklish," admitted Jessica. I think she would have said about anything for a break.

Melanie stopped, probably starting to feel bad for her daughter. Looking to me for confirmation of a job well done, I gave her a thumbs up. Jessica sat there catching her breath, as I chose the first tool to put to use; the toothbrush seemed like a good warm-up device. Trading places with my wife, I knelt before the soles of my stepdaughter, while Melanie took a seat on the table at Jessica's knees.

"What is that?" asked the girl when the toothbrush began to hum. "A freaking toothbrush?"

She flinched as soon I touched the spinning bristles to her skin. "Ha ha! C'mon! Henry! What the hell..." she complained as I ran it up and down one foot, then the other. Her little toes would curl up, trying in vain to protect her soles. I'd simply set the brush upon her pretty green nails, and that would send her into a fit, flexing her toes so I could again reach her bottoms.

"Honey, could you separate her toes for me?" I asked my wife.

Melanie took her daughter's big toe and its neighbor, pulling them apart. I placed the toothbrush right in between, the spinning bristles titillating the revealed skin. Jessica's face was scrunched, her teeth gritting. My wife moved on to the next pair of toes after a minute, again spreading them for my tickle tool. "Ha ha! Th— That tickles so bad!" moaned Jessica. And so on down the line we went, the brush exploring in between and underneath each of Jessica's sensitive digits until we reached the end.

"Oh my god!" Jessica complained when I turned off the brush. "Okay, we're done now. I understand the punishment, alright?"

"Oh, but we haven't tried everything yet," my wife said, taking a few feathers. "I want to see how these work."

"C'mon. No more!" protested Jessica, as her mother started running the feathers up and down her neck. Her daughter was instantly giggling, shaking her head from side to side as the soft feathers caressed her. I gave myself a moment to take in the sight, as my wife drew the feathers down to her daughter's armpits, back up the undersides of her arms, then in circles around her throat and chest. The whole while, Jessica squirmed, let out little whimpers and chuckles, and did her best to ward off the feathers. Melanie had a huge smile on her face, apparently very much enjoying herself. The whole scene was adorable, I thought.

Taking up the hairbrush and pinwheel, I stood over Jessica's feet. I pocketed the pinwheel, deciding to start off nice. She was so distracted by her mother, that she didn't notice what I was up to. I started the brush in little circles on the ball of her foot.

"AHH! What the hell?" she screamed, jolted out of giggling as her feet were suddenly being brushed. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! AHAHAHA!"

I held her ankles with one hand while I sent the brush across her little soles. She squirmed, bucked, and fought while Melanie continued to annoy her with the feathers. I'd switch from back and forth directions across both feet, to up and down strokes, to circular motions. It was right under her toes where she hated it the most.

"HAHAHA! Okay, okay!" she was pleading, the bristles beginning to turn her soles nice and pink. The simultaneous tickling from head to toe drove her wild, the poor girl writhing like crazy. It was a true testament to my ropework that she couldn't escape.

My wife set down her feathers, and I put down the brush after a few torturous minutes. Jessica panted, looking worn out. I wanted her to get a bit of a breather before I used the pinwheel.

"Are we done?" she asked, hopeful that her little punishment was over.

"Last instrument," I said, pulling the device from my pocket. She looked at it worriedly, seeing the intimidating, silvery spikes.

"That— That looks scary!" she said fearfully, as I touched it to her foot. "Hold on. What is that thing?"

"A Wartenberg wheel," I explained, slowly rolling it up her sole. "Doctors use it to test nerve reactions."

Jessica's eyes shut tight as she breathed in and out through her nose, trying to resist the sensation of the pins. I rolled it slowly up her foot, then back down. Her little toes flinched involuntarily as the wheel did its work. I repeated the movement on her other foot while she strained to remain calm.

"Hmm! OH!"she finally broke, when I rolled the device faster along her sole. Little white lines were momentarily left on her pink skin as the wheel made its way around.

"How does that feel?" asked her mother, observing her daughter's expressions.

"HAHA! Oh my god! It— It's horrible!" she squealed, as I began driving it horizontally across her feet. "Okay! Please! Stop it!"

The pinwheel was quite evil, as Jessica learned; if she moved too suddenly, the pins dug painfully into her. Her best option was to try and stay still, which she wasn't doing a very good job at. I had Melanie hold her ankles when she'd try to pull away, and soon the poor girl was truly suffering. She'd curl up her toes as her last defense, but then I'd simply run the pinwheel along the crevices of each little wrinkle that formed on her sole; it drove her nuts. I also focused on her smooth heels, zigzagging around them; scrunching up her toes could do nothing to protect here there.

"Could you come here, honey?" I asked, giving Jessica a few seconds to recover. "Just take her big toes and pull them back a bit."

"Like this?" she asked, gripping her daughter's toes in one hand and holding them tight.

"Perfect," I smiled.

"No, no, no! Wait!" Jessica begged, sensing how vulnerable her feet now were. She tried in vain to move her toes as I placed the wheel at their base, but Melanie held her tight; she was defenseless.

I rolled the pinwheel rapidly, from left to right, across both feet. I had obviously found her weak spot, as she began pulling with her arms against her bonds and screeching to high heaven. "AAAHHHHH! No! No! Please, stop it! Henry!"

I then slipped the wheel in between her two first toes, drawing it rapidly down the length of her foot. Moving on to the next two toes, I repeated the process. "HUH! Fuck! No more!" she begged, feeling every pin stimulate her nerves.

"So, do you think you learned your lesson?" I questioned, running the wheel down from the third set of toes.

"Yes! UGH! I learned!" she whimpered, her face beginning to glisten with sweat from the exhaustion.

"What did you learn?" I asked, moving on to her other foot: in between the toes, and down the sole ran the pinwheel.

"I— HAHAHA! I learned to— UGH! —to do better in school," she struggled to say.

"And if you don't?" I asked, finishing the runs from between her toes. I pushed the pins harder, moving willy nilly across both feet. "What's going to happen?"

"AAAHHHH! AHAHAHAAA! Please! PLEASE!" she howled, as her tender flesh was tortured.

"What's going to happen?" Melanie asked again, watching her suffering daughter.

"AHHAAAAAHH! I'm— OH MY GOD! HUHH! I'm... I'm going to... UGH! ...GET TICKLED!" she shrieked.

When I stopped, her little feet were pink and quivering. She was panting as if she had just run a mile, her makeup marred from the sweat she had broken out in. She looked quite spent for someone who claimed to not be ticklish.

"That... That fucking sucked," she breathed, as I set down my tool. "I don't ever want to do this again."

What fun, I thought, as I reluctantly began untying her ankles. I wondered if I should have filmed this for my new friends online.

"Well, you had to be taught a lesson, honey," Melanie told her. "Keep it in mind this semester. A's and B's, or else you're back on this table!"

"Speaking of teaching lessons," I said, untying the last of Jessica's ropes and setting her free, "about my car..."

"Um, your car?" asked my wife, as I smiled wickedly at her.

"You mean, MY car?" taunted Jessica, looking menacingly at her mother.

"Why don't you change into your bathing suit and get comfortable," I said, patting the massage table. "Do you think you're as ticklish as your daughter?"

My wife's eyes grew a bit larger as she contemplated what was in store for her. Jessica had a big grin on her face. What a fun night this was turning out to be.

The End.

Wonderful story with a great ending, too.

Excellent! And even more so for your first posted story

Nice job!