“I hate tailgaters.” I said as I was slowly coming to a stop at the red light, at Pennlyn Pike and Skippack. I glanced in my rear-view momentarily, seeing the little car so close to me that I couldn’t get a bead on the grill to see what kind of vehicle it was.
I also noticed the female driver. “Dumb broad,” I thought to myself.
“This’ll fix her…” I mumbled as I pushed down on the brake a little harder than I needed to.
The results were not as I expected. I figured she would see me slowing down suddenly, and hit her own brakes, or at least swerve.
Neither.
Instead, she plowed into my rear end, suddenly doing twice the speed I was, and my head slammed back to the headrest. After both cars halted, I heard more than a few pieces of metal and fiberglass clatter to the ground.
I sat in my car for a few seconds, calming my immediately white-hot temper. “Don’t blow up, she rear ended you, she should have been paying attention, it can’t be that bad anyway, you weren’t going that fast…”
I stepped out of my blue Dodge Viper, repeating these things over and over in my mind. When I got to the back of my car and saw the damage, it all disappeared.
“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING?!?!?” I screamed at the female driver. She was visibly shaking in her driver’s seat, her knuckles white around the steering wheel of her slightly damaged Volvo.
The rear end of my precious was mangled. The bumper was laying on the pavement, severed from the body of the car, all of my rear lights were crushed, and half of the trunk was crumpled in. It wasn’t going anywhere, even on its own 545 horsepower.
After my yell, I noticed many people looking over at us. I again tried to calm myself, and I walked over to the woman’s driver-side door. She was pale as death, gripping her steering wheel like it would save her from a tornado.
I gently knocked on the window, and she yelped, jumping. Her face was smeared with what looked like lipstick, and in the passenger’s seat laid an open stick of the junk. SO that’s why she wasn’t paying attention to the road.
She looked at me, horrified at what I might do to her, and slowly rolled down her window.
“Step out of your car, please.”
If there’s one thing I have learned from accidents, you never let a driver stay in their car if they just hit your $80,000 one.
She slowly stepped out of her car, revealing herself to me. She was shaking violently, and I felt a nearly parental urge to hug her and say it’s ok, she was so disturbed.
“Hey, calm down, we’ll take care of it, ok?”
She looked up at me, then at the car, then at me again, and, surprising the hell out of me, started to beg.
“Please sir, I am so sorry, please don’t sue me!! I’ll do anything, I don’t have the money to afford this, I am so sorry, please!” she whimpered.
Now, if I had been so inclined, I could have gotten her for half the worth of that car. But what she said struck me…
I pulled out my cell phone and started to dial.
“NO! Sir please, don’t call the cops, I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t get me arrested!!!” This girl couldn’t be older than 20, with long blond hair and baby blue eyes, like the ones you see in the movies. She was about half a foot shorter than me, and was dressed in a tie-die rainbow t-shirt and cutoff jeans. She wore sneakers, and ankle socks. I could just make out the elastic opening of the socks when I glanced down at her shoes. She was attractively slim, with a chest that caught eyes, but was proportional.
“Calm down, girl! I’m not calling the cops. Look at my car, it needs a tow.” I said to her, as I held the phone up to my ear. “Hold on a sec.”
I spoke with Jason, the tow truck driver whom I had been friends with for years. He said, “Aww, what happened now? Did a squirrel hit ya?” (knowing how fragile fiberglass is, that might actually cause some damage.)
“Fuh-nee. I got rear-ended. Care to come down and pick up my car, drag it to your shop?” I told him where I was.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in ten.”
I pressed the ‘end’ key on the phone, and looked back down at the girl’s car. It was drivable, but not too easy on the eyes anymore.
I went to the passenger side of my Viper, and dug around in the glovebox. Pulling out a pen and a small pad of paper, I walked back over to the girl, whom I was beginning to like on account of her looks.
“Okay, darlin, I want you to give me all your information. Name, address, home and cell phone numbers, date of birth, and insurance info. Okay?”
She whimpered and nodded. Walking back to her car to rest the pad of paper on her hood, she began to write. Meanwhile, I started to formulate a plot.
After a couple of minutes, the girl brought back the paper pad.
Michelle Watkins, 426 Willow Grove Avenue, blah blah blah…phone numbers…born on January 21st, 1983. So she was 20. How about that. Everything else was just insurance crap.
I said, “You do understand that your insurance will probably quadruple itself, right?”
She started to cry. “I…I know…I can’t afford that…*sniffle*…I’m so sorry…” Her tears fell to the pavement and evaporated on the hot tarmac.
The tow truck pulled up, and after 15 minutes, he drove off with my precious Viper, laying on his flatbed. They’d have it fixed and ready to roll in less than a week.
Michelle was still crying, albeit softer than before. “Ok, Michelle, calm down…” I patted her back. “…I won’t get the insurance company into this, ok?” I folded the piece of paper she wrote on and slid it into my back pocket.
She looked up at me, wiping away her tears, and said, “You…you won’t?”
“No, I won’t but I will ask you or a few things. Here is my address.” I handed her a business card with my information on it. “Be at my house at seven o’clock sharp tonight, and we can work things out. Alright?”
She finally stopped crying, looked up at me and said, “Um…ok…”
I told her to get into her car, go home, and rest. She nodded and slowly stepped back into her Volvo, and drove away. I walked home, since it wasn’t that far. On the way, I came up with many interesting ideas I would like to try.
****
Michelle showed up at my house earlier than expected, at about 6:50. I heard her car pull up, and looked out the window. It took her a few moments to spot my house, and when she did, she got out of her car and walked slowly up to my front door. She was wearing the same thing she had on earlier.
I let her ring the doorbell twice before I answered. “Well, hello there. Glad to see you came by. Early, too.”
I thought she blushed a little, probably out of embarrassment. “Come in, have a seat.” I motioned to the couch in the living room.
She sat down, and immediately asked me how we were going to settle this without bringing our insurance companies into it. She went on a rant about how little money she had, that she could pay it off if given enough time (she said something like 10 years or so), but that she really would never be able to afford a skyrocketing insurance policy. I listened to her go on and on for a few minutes before cutting her off.
“Michelle, listen, I have a proposition for you. I suggest you listen to everything I have to say before you answer, this is very important.” She nodded and said, “I’m listening.”
I looked her dead in the eyes. (she had beautiful eyes…) “I have all your information. I know where you live, I know your phone numbers, and I know your insurance company. I have many friends in your particular company.” Her eyes widened. “But…I will consider not even mentioning this whole incident to them, if you agree to the following terms. First of all, are you ticklish?”
She turned a shade of pale I hadn’t though humanly possible without passing out. “Y-y-yes…I am…”
Obviously. “Where?”
“Umm…” She was shaking as violently as she had been earlier that day. “Everywhere…um…”
“Good,” I said. “Now listen up. We will agree on a certain amount of money that you will put to damages, and I will pick up the rest. Until that amount is paid off by you, if I call upon you to come to my house and be tickled, you will do so without hesitation. If you do not comply, I will call your insurance company and ruin you. Understood?”
Michelle was stuck. I could tell she hated to be tickled, but she had to choose…and to her, it was apparently a small price to pay to keep her life in order.
“Do we have a deal?” I asked her.
“…y…yes….it’s a deal.” She said, her voice cracking.
I was prepared. I took out a sheet of paper that had everything I just said on it, and my signature. There was a place for her signature, also. She signed it, and I folded it again and put it back into my pocket. “Let’s get started shall we? If you agree to pay half of the damages, spread out over as long as you need them to be, we will call it even. Got it?”
“But that will take 5 years at least!!!” she wailed.
“You should have been paying attention to where you were going.”
She gulped, and nodded. “okay…” she said.
“Now, lay down, with your arms over your head.” I instructed. This surprised her; she hadn’t expected me to begin so soon. I had to tell her again before she realized that I was serious. She laid down on the couch, and I went into a drawer of the end table. Pulling out four scarves, I tied her wrists and ankles together, then tightly to the arms of the couch on both ends. She was shaking again.
“Did you read any of the fine print at the bottom of that paper you signed?”
She looked at me with a look of fear. “N-No, I didn’t.”
“It also states that I may remove any of your clothing for any reason at any time, and that I may tickle you wherever I want, however I want, with whatever I want, and for how ever long that I want. Also it says that any move you make to escape or draw attention to yourself while you are being tickled will constitute disagreement. Is that understood?”
She started to cry again. “Don’t worry Michelle, I won’t hurt you, that I promise.”
After a few minutes she had calmed down, and I slowly started to drag my fingertips up and down her sides, through her tie die tee shirt. She squealed softly, still a little choked up from her crying, and wiggles a little bit on the couch. “Tell me where you are the most ticklish, Michelle, so I can avoid that spot.”
She was a dumb blond. “Hee hee, my, my feet…” and she kept giggling. I slowly let my hands wander up her shirt and stroked her bare sides.
“Good, because I lied.” I grabbed her ribcage and she screamed, then collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter, her breasts bouncing slightly as she gasped for air. I spidered my fingers up and down her ribcage sadistically, making her arch up off of the couch, then flop back down when she couldn’t hold that anymore.
I straddled her hips and tickled harder, forcing gales of laughter from her beautiful face. She had a sweet laugh, not one of those harsh or “hee haw” laughs. She sounded like a schoolgirl. And damn she was hot.
I tickled her ribs for a few minutes, and her tears began to fow again, but this time from the tickling. I stopped, giving her a moment to breathe.
“*giggle*…you said you wouldn’t tickle my…most sensitive…*gasp* …spot….”
“I said, I lied. But that is for later.” I said. I took hold of her t-shirt and pulled it up over her head, revealing that she was not wearing a bra. Her cheeks turned bright pink, and I had to laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me! This is embarrassing…”
“Not nearly embarrassing as it’s going to get.” Before she could react, I attacked her underarms, stroking and wiggling my fingers in her armpits wildly, causing her to scream again and again, and laugh and giggle like the cute girl she was.
To be continued…
I also noticed the female driver. “Dumb broad,” I thought to myself.
“This’ll fix her…” I mumbled as I pushed down on the brake a little harder than I needed to.
The results were not as I expected. I figured she would see me slowing down suddenly, and hit her own brakes, or at least swerve.
Neither.
Instead, she plowed into my rear end, suddenly doing twice the speed I was, and my head slammed back to the headrest. After both cars halted, I heard more than a few pieces of metal and fiberglass clatter to the ground.
I sat in my car for a few seconds, calming my immediately white-hot temper. “Don’t blow up, she rear ended you, she should have been paying attention, it can’t be that bad anyway, you weren’t going that fast…”
I stepped out of my blue Dodge Viper, repeating these things over and over in my mind. When I got to the back of my car and saw the damage, it all disappeared.
“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING?!?!?” I screamed at the female driver. She was visibly shaking in her driver’s seat, her knuckles white around the steering wheel of her slightly damaged Volvo.
The rear end of my precious was mangled. The bumper was laying on the pavement, severed from the body of the car, all of my rear lights were crushed, and half of the trunk was crumpled in. It wasn’t going anywhere, even on its own 545 horsepower.
After my yell, I noticed many people looking over at us. I again tried to calm myself, and I walked over to the woman’s driver-side door. She was pale as death, gripping her steering wheel like it would save her from a tornado.
I gently knocked on the window, and she yelped, jumping. Her face was smeared with what looked like lipstick, and in the passenger’s seat laid an open stick of the junk. SO that’s why she wasn’t paying attention to the road.
She looked at me, horrified at what I might do to her, and slowly rolled down her window.
“Step out of your car, please.”
If there’s one thing I have learned from accidents, you never let a driver stay in their car if they just hit your $80,000 one.
She slowly stepped out of her car, revealing herself to me. She was shaking violently, and I felt a nearly parental urge to hug her and say it’s ok, she was so disturbed.
“Hey, calm down, we’ll take care of it, ok?”
She looked up at me, then at the car, then at me again, and, surprising the hell out of me, started to beg.
“Please sir, I am so sorry, please don’t sue me!! I’ll do anything, I don’t have the money to afford this, I am so sorry, please!” she whimpered.
Now, if I had been so inclined, I could have gotten her for half the worth of that car. But what she said struck me…
I pulled out my cell phone and started to dial.
“NO! Sir please, don’t call the cops, I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t get me arrested!!!” This girl couldn’t be older than 20, with long blond hair and baby blue eyes, like the ones you see in the movies. She was about half a foot shorter than me, and was dressed in a tie-die rainbow t-shirt and cutoff jeans. She wore sneakers, and ankle socks. I could just make out the elastic opening of the socks when I glanced down at her shoes. She was attractively slim, with a chest that caught eyes, but was proportional.
“Calm down, girl! I’m not calling the cops. Look at my car, it needs a tow.” I said to her, as I held the phone up to my ear. “Hold on a sec.”
I spoke with Jason, the tow truck driver whom I had been friends with for years. He said, “Aww, what happened now? Did a squirrel hit ya?” (knowing how fragile fiberglass is, that might actually cause some damage.)
“Fuh-nee. I got rear-ended. Care to come down and pick up my car, drag it to your shop?” I told him where I was.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in ten.”
I pressed the ‘end’ key on the phone, and looked back down at the girl’s car. It was drivable, but not too easy on the eyes anymore.
I went to the passenger side of my Viper, and dug around in the glovebox. Pulling out a pen and a small pad of paper, I walked back over to the girl, whom I was beginning to like on account of her looks.
“Okay, darlin, I want you to give me all your information. Name, address, home and cell phone numbers, date of birth, and insurance info. Okay?”
She whimpered and nodded. Walking back to her car to rest the pad of paper on her hood, she began to write. Meanwhile, I started to formulate a plot.
After a couple of minutes, the girl brought back the paper pad.
Michelle Watkins, 426 Willow Grove Avenue, blah blah blah…phone numbers…born on January 21st, 1983. So she was 20. How about that. Everything else was just insurance crap.
I said, “You do understand that your insurance will probably quadruple itself, right?”
She started to cry. “I…I know…I can’t afford that…*sniffle*…I’m so sorry…” Her tears fell to the pavement and evaporated on the hot tarmac.
The tow truck pulled up, and after 15 minutes, he drove off with my precious Viper, laying on his flatbed. They’d have it fixed and ready to roll in less than a week.
Michelle was still crying, albeit softer than before. “Ok, Michelle, calm down…” I patted her back. “…I won’t get the insurance company into this, ok?” I folded the piece of paper she wrote on and slid it into my back pocket.
She looked up at me, wiping away her tears, and said, “You…you won’t?”
“No, I won’t but I will ask you or a few things. Here is my address.” I handed her a business card with my information on it. “Be at my house at seven o’clock sharp tonight, and we can work things out. Alright?”
She finally stopped crying, looked up at me and said, “Um…ok…”
I told her to get into her car, go home, and rest. She nodded and slowly stepped back into her Volvo, and drove away. I walked home, since it wasn’t that far. On the way, I came up with many interesting ideas I would like to try.
****
Michelle showed up at my house earlier than expected, at about 6:50. I heard her car pull up, and looked out the window. It took her a few moments to spot my house, and when she did, she got out of her car and walked slowly up to my front door. She was wearing the same thing she had on earlier.
I let her ring the doorbell twice before I answered. “Well, hello there. Glad to see you came by. Early, too.”
I thought she blushed a little, probably out of embarrassment. “Come in, have a seat.” I motioned to the couch in the living room.
She sat down, and immediately asked me how we were going to settle this without bringing our insurance companies into it. She went on a rant about how little money she had, that she could pay it off if given enough time (she said something like 10 years or so), but that she really would never be able to afford a skyrocketing insurance policy. I listened to her go on and on for a few minutes before cutting her off.
“Michelle, listen, I have a proposition for you. I suggest you listen to everything I have to say before you answer, this is very important.” She nodded and said, “I’m listening.”
I looked her dead in the eyes. (she had beautiful eyes…) “I have all your information. I know where you live, I know your phone numbers, and I know your insurance company. I have many friends in your particular company.” Her eyes widened. “But…I will consider not even mentioning this whole incident to them, if you agree to the following terms. First of all, are you ticklish?”
She turned a shade of pale I hadn’t though humanly possible without passing out. “Y-y-yes…I am…”
Obviously. “Where?”
“Umm…” She was shaking as violently as she had been earlier that day. “Everywhere…um…”
“Good,” I said. “Now listen up. We will agree on a certain amount of money that you will put to damages, and I will pick up the rest. Until that amount is paid off by you, if I call upon you to come to my house and be tickled, you will do so without hesitation. If you do not comply, I will call your insurance company and ruin you. Understood?”
Michelle was stuck. I could tell she hated to be tickled, but she had to choose…and to her, it was apparently a small price to pay to keep her life in order.
“Do we have a deal?” I asked her.
“…y…yes….it’s a deal.” She said, her voice cracking.
I was prepared. I took out a sheet of paper that had everything I just said on it, and my signature. There was a place for her signature, also. She signed it, and I folded it again and put it back into my pocket. “Let’s get started shall we? If you agree to pay half of the damages, spread out over as long as you need them to be, we will call it even. Got it?”
“But that will take 5 years at least!!!” she wailed.
“You should have been paying attention to where you were going.”
She gulped, and nodded. “okay…” she said.
“Now, lay down, with your arms over your head.” I instructed. This surprised her; she hadn’t expected me to begin so soon. I had to tell her again before she realized that I was serious. She laid down on the couch, and I went into a drawer of the end table. Pulling out four scarves, I tied her wrists and ankles together, then tightly to the arms of the couch on both ends. She was shaking again.
“Did you read any of the fine print at the bottom of that paper you signed?”
She looked at me with a look of fear. “N-No, I didn’t.”
“It also states that I may remove any of your clothing for any reason at any time, and that I may tickle you wherever I want, however I want, with whatever I want, and for how ever long that I want. Also it says that any move you make to escape or draw attention to yourself while you are being tickled will constitute disagreement. Is that understood?”
She started to cry again. “Don’t worry Michelle, I won’t hurt you, that I promise.”
After a few minutes she had calmed down, and I slowly started to drag my fingertips up and down her sides, through her tie die tee shirt. She squealed softly, still a little choked up from her crying, and wiggles a little bit on the couch. “Tell me where you are the most ticklish, Michelle, so I can avoid that spot.”
She was a dumb blond. “Hee hee, my, my feet…” and she kept giggling. I slowly let my hands wander up her shirt and stroked her bare sides.
“Good, because I lied.” I grabbed her ribcage and she screamed, then collapsed into a fit of hysterical laughter, her breasts bouncing slightly as she gasped for air. I spidered my fingers up and down her ribcage sadistically, making her arch up off of the couch, then flop back down when she couldn’t hold that anymore.
I straddled her hips and tickled harder, forcing gales of laughter from her beautiful face. She had a sweet laugh, not one of those harsh or “hee haw” laughs. She sounded like a schoolgirl. And damn she was hot.
I tickled her ribs for a few minutes, and her tears began to fow again, but this time from the tickling. I stopped, giving her a moment to breathe.
“*giggle*…you said you wouldn’t tickle my…most sensitive…*gasp* …spot….”
“I said, I lied. But that is for later.” I said. I took hold of her t-shirt and pulled it up over her head, revealing that she was not wearing a bra. Her cheeks turned bright pink, and I had to laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me! This is embarrassing…”
“Not nearly embarrassing as it’s going to get.” Before she could react, I attacked her underarms, stroking and wiggling my fingers in her armpits wildly, causing her to scream again and again, and laugh and giggle like the cute girl she was.
To be continued…
