Rockauthor
TMF Master
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2001
- Messages
- 815
- Points
- 16
JENNIFER LOPEZ
AMY JO JOHNSON (Mighty Morphin Power Rangers)
Starring in
“There’s always room for J Lo”
(a ticklish celebrity fiction request)
Everyone in the glamorous land of Hollywood knew John Herring as the owner of the famous Stokes restaurant. He was a world-renown chef and entrepreneur who made millions selling his eclectic variety of gourmet frozen entrees and canned soups. John gained quite a reputation for introducing unusual and innovative dishes, most notably, his five different grilled alligator steaks that were frequently featured at Stokes.
Always on the cutting edge of cooking, John Herring wanted to do more than just serve people what they already liked to eat. He took advantage of learning about various spices, produce, and other delicacies from around the world. Whether it was broiled lemming liver in tart kumquat sauce, poached seagull eggs, or quesadillas made with grasshopper meat and diced cacti, John never ceased to amaze reluctant diners who always ended up finding the odd creations to be delicious.
Most of the celebrities who frequented Stokes and met John Herring found the 51-year-old New Zealander to be an innocuously eccentric man at worst. But little did they know how creatively twisted he really was. He always had a scheming eye on the scores of Hollywood hotties who graced him with their presence. Particularly, John adored their lovely, manicured feet.
Nothing made him happier than to have a pretty pair of sensitive soles placed before him in a formal dinner setting so that he could tickle them with an array of diabolical tickling utensils. Now most people would never go to such extremes to satisfy an insatiable fetish as John Herring would, but then again, he was very eccentric...and exceedingly wealthy...and his employees were extremely loyal.
***
One partying Saturday night at Stokes, John peeked out of the tinted window in his upstairs office and spotted his two favorite female stars in the dining room, superstar Jennifer Lopez and Amy Jo Johnson of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers fame. Amy was at one table with two other young women, wearing a gorgeous dark blue pullover dress, giggling and having a blast. Jennifer was at another table with a group of rap music types, wearing a sexy, purple, backless dress, and enjoying Stoke’s world famous baby octopus appetizers. Both ladies had matching ankle strap high heel shoes that gave John a players view of their gorgeous, flawless feet.
The popular chef conversed with four of his most devoted workers, Claude, Nigel, Floyd, and Walter, concocting a devious plan to seize the two women and bring them to John’s “secret” dining room for his tickling pleasure. He then went downstairs to say hello to the Latin hottie and the pretty Power Ranger, putting on his innocent foreigner charm for them. Amy gave John a friendly peck on the lips while Jennifer praised his French onion stew. Neither girl had a clue what uncanny amusement their host had in store for them.
***
Jennifer Lopez had awakened from a very deep sleep. She was disorientated and panicky from her situation. Her body was secured in a straightjacket, she had been gagged, and she was laying on her back with her legs sticking straight up and her feet trapped through a ceiling of some sort above her. Quickly taking in her surroundings, Jennifer realized that she was trapped under a table; she saw the four legs at each corner and the tablecloth hanging down like a curtain where light shone through.
What the fuck? What is this? Where am I? she thought.
What was yet more surprising was when Jennifer looked to her right and saw another person laying next to her, confined in the same letter “L” position. The person appeared to be a woman. Oddly, she was clad in a pink spandex suit with fancy trim, and she was tied up in broad leather straps. Jennifer soon recognized the outfit as a Power Rangers uniform. What the Selena star might not have known was that the frenzied woman underneath the mask was none other than the pink Power Ranger herself, actress Amy Jo Johnson.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmph!” Jennifer screamed into her gag, shortly accompanied by Amy Jo’s equally shrill, muffled scream.
Both women determinedly tried to break free, but because of the position they were restrained in, it was of no use. What Jennifer and Amy Jo did not know was that above the table they each had their feet framed in fine china. The plates were specially made for the “master”; they opened and closed in the middle like a set of stocks, and had velvet-lined iron clasps attached at the bottom; two smaller holes were drilled near the edge of the dish where a thin piece of rope went through to tie their big toes together, leaving their feet totally immobile.
Suddenly a man’s voice was heard.
“Dinner is served, sir,” said Walter, John Herring’s loyal and discreet butler.
“Thank you, Walter,” said the master.
Jennifer frowned. She couldn’t place it at the moment, but she could’ve sworn that was the New Zealand accent of chef John Herring of Stokes. Walter kindly pulled out the stylish, high-back, mahogany chair for John, and the master graciously sat down. Jennifer saw a dark form through the illuminating tablecloth approaching as the master’s legs protruded against the drape with a pair of shined, black shoes peeking out from under.
The master’s dinner table was an elegant decoration, complete with a silver candelabra centerpiece bordered with a colorful floral arrangement. The servants of John Herring never judged or denied the eccentric man, indulging his unorthodox rituals without question. He was seated right in front of the captive Amy Jo Johnson and began his little role play routine with Walter.
“What scrumptious creation do you have planned for this evening?” asked the master, facetiously.
The dedicated butler reached over and lifted a dome lid in front of John to reveal a beautiful pair of smooth, well-manicured soles garnished with chopped parsley and a radish on the side. A collection of the master’s finest tickling instruments decorated the plate. On his left, arranged from smallest to largest, was a stiff turkey feather, a thin, fine-bristled paintbrush, and a travel-size package of hand lotion; and on his right, arranged from largest to smallest, was a second stiff, thin feather, a powerful electric toothbrush, and a very menacing-looking backscratcher.
“Amy Jo Johnson, sir.” the butler announced.
“Excellent choice, Walter.” said the master.
The star of The Wedding Planner frowned again, shaking her head in disbelief. What in the hell is going on here? she thought.
John then picked up the small packet of hand lotion on his left and opened it. He dabbed a smidgen on the tip of each finger. Starting at her heels, the master glided his fingertips steadily along the soles of Amy Jo’s encased feet like an Olympic skater out on the ice. The sudden sensations shot through the pink Power Ranger like an electric shock, she twitched spasmodically in her confinement, and screamed into her gag at the top of her lungs.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHPH! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPH! MMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPH!”
Under the table, Jennifer watched the hysterical girl with wide horror-filled eyes. She came to the disturbing realization that Amy Jo’s tortured screams were that of ticklish laughter. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, and all of Jennifer’s past experiences of being tickled flashed before her eyes: like the times her “bad boy” boyfriend P. Diddy grabbed her from behind and tickled her stomach, or when her one-time fiance Ben Affleck climbed on their bed, sat on her legs, and tickled her feet ’til she almost cried, or even the times her back-up dancer ex-husband Chris Judd sneaked in a quick armpit tickle or two when Jennifer was working out at the gym.
Oh my god, I’ve been kidnapped by some psycho man, and he’s tickling this poor girl to death, and I’m next. she thought. I gotta get outta here. I’ll go crazy if he tickles MY feet.
John tickled Amy Jo’s feet for the better half of five minutes, dragging his lotion-coated digits all over her pink soles, seeking out the most sensitive regions like a lion hunter tracking down his wily game. He then picked up the black, plastic backscratcher on his right and began skillfully combing the sides and arches of the actress’ left foot with long, dragging strokes while continuing to tickle the tender ball of her right foot in a gentle scraping motion.
“MMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPH! MMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPH! MMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPHHHHHH!”
The only thing poor Amy Jo could do was endure the relentless tickles as she screamed and laughed and screamed and laughed, helpless in the constricting bondage; and all poor Jennifer could do was watch her, knowing she might suffer the same fate soon enough. The Master merrily feasted on his exceptionally ticklish entree until mercifully the attractive, costume-clad brunette passed out.
“Ah, that was a spectacular meal, Walter,” claimed a satisfied John Herring, tongue planted firmly in cheek.
“Could I possibly interest you in dessert, sir?” asked Walter, with a “typical servant” pretense.
“That sounds splendid. What did you have in mind?”
“Jennifer Lopez, sir”
“But of ’course, there’s always room for J Lo,” teased the master.
Under the table, Jennifer’s anxiety went through the roof, hearing all of this. Her heart was pounding. Her breathing was intense and desperate. The Latin beauty just couldn’t stand having her feet tickled; her feet were HER MOST TICKLISH SPOT! Then the master’s faithful butler assisted him in pulling his chair back and seated him in front of Jennifer’s feet.
Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! she thought. I don’t wanna be tickled. My feet are just so ticklish.
Walter again reached over to the table and lifted a dome lid to reveal the Gigli star’s gorgeous, tan soles framed in the same fine china confinement as Amy Jo, with chopped cilantro sprinkled around her feet, and a jalapeno pepper on the side. The master reached for his electric toothbrush and readily turned it on. J Lo’s eyes were wide with worry as she heard the terrifying whirring sound.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPHHHHH! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHH!” she shrieked, in ticklish anticipation.
The master started at the base of Jennifer’s toes on her left foot. The whirling bristles of the electric toothbrush tickled the apparently uncharted canyons, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He then grabbed a stiff turkey feather that was to the left of his dessert plate and began sweeping it up and down Jennifer’s right sole, being attentive to her extra-sensitive zones.
“MMMMMMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMMMPPPHHH! MHMHMHMHMPH! MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPPPHHHH!”
After giving her toes a good scrubbing, the master’s toothbrush traveled down the ball of her left foot to her tender arch and heel then back up again like the spinning brush of a street sweeper, while the feather on her right foot was been dragged down the length of her sole in long, measured caresses.
“HMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMMMMPPPPPHHHHH!”
Jennifer endured the ticklish impositions of this imaginative madman for the next several minutes until John thankfully gave her a break to catch her breath.
He stopped. Oh, thank god, Jennifer thought. Oh my god, my feet are so ticklish. I’m gonna kill this crazy asshole when I get outta here.
Resuming his madness, John put down the electric toothbrush and the feather he was using and picked up the plastic backscratcher to the right of his plate. With the meticulousness of a sculptor, he moved the backscratcher across Jennifer’s left sole erratically, concentrating on her ultra-sensitive arches. His other hand preoccupied the Hollywood hottie’s right sole, delivering a barrage of sporadic scratching, causing the star of The Cell to scream into her gag like a banshee; she jerked her head back and forth and pounded her head on the heavily padded floor mat under her.
“MMMMMPPPPPPHHHHH! MMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHH! MMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHH! HMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHH! MMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHH! MMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
HHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHH!!!”
As her torment went on, Jennifer Lopez just couldn’t get over this suspicion she had that John Herring, the charmingly-nice owner of Stokes was somehow the man sitting at the table, tickling her to death. She didn’t want to believe it. She almost thought she was crazy for even suggesting it. He seemed so harmless and so hospitable. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, she thought. But then the word “fly” lingered in her mind and she started thinking about all the weird cooking creations that he was famous for; she never would’ve dream that she would wind up being his latest dish.
THE END
AMY JO JOHNSON (Mighty Morphin Power Rangers)
Starring in
“There’s always room for J Lo”
(a ticklish celebrity fiction request)
Everyone in the glamorous land of Hollywood knew John Herring as the owner of the famous Stokes restaurant. He was a world-renown chef and entrepreneur who made millions selling his eclectic variety of gourmet frozen entrees and canned soups. John gained quite a reputation for introducing unusual and innovative dishes, most notably, his five different grilled alligator steaks that were frequently featured at Stokes.
Always on the cutting edge of cooking, John Herring wanted to do more than just serve people what they already liked to eat. He took advantage of learning about various spices, produce, and other delicacies from around the world. Whether it was broiled lemming liver in tart kumquat sauce, poached seagull eggs, or quesadillas made with grasshopper meat and diced cacti, John never ceased to amaze reluctant diners who always ended up finding the odd creations to be delicious.
Most of the celebrities who frequented Stokes and met John Herring found the 51-year-old New Zealander to be an innocuously eccentric man at worst. But little did they know how creatively twisted he really was. He always had a scheming eye on the scores of Hollywood hotties who graced him with their presence. Particularly, John adored their lovely, manicured feet.
Nothing made him happier than to have a pretty pair of sensitive soles placed before him in a formal dinner setting so that he could tickle them with an array of diabolical tickling utensils. Now most people would never go to such extremes to satisfy an insatiable fetish as John Herring would, but then again, he was very eccentric...and exceedingly wealthy...and his employees were extremely loyal.
***
One partying Saturday night at Stokes, John peeked out of the tinted window in his upstairs office and spotted his two favorite female stars in the dining room, superstar Jennifer Lopez and Amy Jo Johnson of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers fame. Amy was at one table with two other young women, wearing a gorgeous dark blue pullover dress, giggling and having a blast. Jennifer was at another table with a group of rap music types, wearing a sexy, purple, backless dress, and enjoying Stoke’s world famous baby octopus appetizers. Both ladies had matching ankle strap high heel shoes that gave John a players view of their gorgeous, flawless feet.
The popular chef conversed with four of his most devoted workers, Claude, Nigel, Floyd, and Walter, concocting a devious plan to seize the two women and bring them to John’s “secret” dining room for his tickling pleasure. He then went downstairs to say hello to the Latin hottie and the pretty Power Ranger, putting on his innocent foreigner charm for them. Amy gave John a friendly peck on the lips while Jennifer praised his French onion stew. Neither girl had a clue what uncanny amusement their host had in store for them.
***
Jennifer Lopez had awakened from a very deep sleep. She was disorientated and panicky from her situation. Her body was secured in a straightjacket, she had been gagged, and she was laying on her back with her legs sticking straight up and her feet trapped through a ceiling of some sort above her. Quickly taking in her surroundings, Jennifer realized that she was trapped under a table; she saw the four legs at each corner and the tablecloth hanging down like a curtain where light shone through.
What the fuck? What is this? Where am I? she thought.
What was yet more surprising was when Jennifer looked to her right and saw another person laying next to her, confined in the same letter “L” position. The person appeared to be a woman. Oddly, she was clad in a pink spandex suit with fancy trim, and she was tied up in broad leather straps. Jennifer soon recognized the outfit as a Power Rangers uniform. What the Selena star might not have known was that the frenzied woman underneath the mask was none other than the pink Power Ranger herself, actress Amy Jo Johnson.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmph!” Jennifer screamed into her gag, shortly accompanied by Amy Jo’s equally shrill, muffled scream.
Both women determinedly tried to break free, but because of the position they were restrained in, it was of no use. What Jennifer and Amy Jo did not know was that above the table they each had their feet framed in fine china. The plates were specially made for the “master”; they opened and closed in the middle like a set of stocks, and had velvet-lined iron clasps attached at the bottom; two smaller holes were drilled near the edge of the dish where a thin piece of rope went through to tie their big toes together, leaving their feet totally immobile.
Suddenly a man’s voice was heard.
“Dinner is served, sir,” said Walter, John Herring’s loyal and discreet butler.
“Thank you, Walter,” said the master.
Jennifer frowned. She couldn’t place it at the moment, but she could’ve sworn that was the New Zealand accent of chef John Herring of Stokes. Walter kindly pulled out the stylish, high-back, mahogany chair for John, and the master graciously sat down. Jennifer saw a dark form through the illuminating tablecloth approaching as the master’s legs protruded against the drape with a pair of shined, black shoes peeking out from under.
The master’s dinner table was an elegant decoration, complete with a silver candelabra centerpiece bordered with a colorful floral arrangement. The servants of John Herring never judged or denied the eccentric man, indulging his unorthodox rituals without question. He was seated right in front of the captive Amy Jo Johnson and began his little role play routine with Walter.
“What scrumptious creation do you have planned for this evening?” asked the master, facetiously.
The dedicated butler reached over and lifted a dome lid in front of John to reveal a beautiful pair of smooth, well-manicured soles garnished with chopped parsley and a radish on the side. A collection of the master’s finest tickling instruments decorated the plate. On his left, arranged from smallest to largest, was a stiff turkey feather, a thin, fine-bristled paintbrush, and a travel-size package of hand lotion; and on his right, arranged from largest to smallest, was a second stiff, thin feather, a powerful electric toothbrush, and a very menacing-looking backscratcher.
“Amy Jo Johnson, sir.” the butler announced.
“Excellent choice, Walter.” said the master.
The star of The Wedding Planner frowned again, shaking her head in disbelief. What in the hell is going on here? she thought.
John then picked up the small packet of hand lotion on his left and opened it. He dabbed a smidgen on the tip of each finger. Starting at her heels, the master glided his fingertips steadily along the soles of Amy Jo’s encased feet like an Olympic skater out on the ice. The sudden sensations shot through the pink Power Ranger like an electric shock, she twitched spasmodically in her confinement, and screamed into her gag at the top of her lungs.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHPH! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPH! MMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPH!”
Under the table, Jennifer watched the hysterical girl with wide horror-filled eyes. She came to the disturbing realization that Amy Jo’s tortured screams were that of ticklish laughter. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, and all of Jennifer’s past experiences of being tickled flashed before her eyes: like the times her “bad boy” boyfriend P. Diddy grabbed her from behind and tickled her stomach, or when her one-time fiance Ben Affleck climbed on their bed, sat on her legs, and tickled her feet ’til she almost cried, or even the times her back-up dancer ex-husband Chris Judd sneaked in a quick armpit tickle or two when Jennifer was working out at the gym.
Oh my god, I’ve been kidnapped by some psycho man, and he’s tickling this poor girl to death, and I’m next. she thought. I gotta get outta here. I’ll go crazy if he tickles MY feet.
John tickled Amy Jo’s feet for the better half of five minutes, dragging his lotion-coated digits all over her pink soles, seeking out the most sensitive regions like a lion hunter tracking down his wily game. He then picked up the black, plastic backscratcher on his right and began skillfully combing the sides and arches of the actress’ left foot with long, dragging strokes while continuing to tickle the tender ball of her right foot in a gentle scraping motion.
“MMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPH! MMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPH! MMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPHHHHHH!”
The only thing poor Amy Jo could do was endure the relentless tickles as she screamed and laughed and screamed and laughed, helpless in the constricting bondage; and all poor Jennifer could do was watch her, knowing she might suffer the same fate soon enough. The Master merrily feasted on his exceptionally ticklish entree until mercifully the attractive, costume-clad brunette passed out.
“Ah, that was a spectacular meal, Walter,” claimed a satisfied John Herring, tongue planted firmly in cheek.
“Could I possibly interest you in dessert, sir?” asked Walter, with a “typical servant” pretense.
“That sounds splendid. What did you have in mind?”
“Jennifer Lopez, sir”
“But of ’course, there’s always room for J Lo,” teased the master.
Under the table, Jennifer’s anxiety went through the roof, hearing all of this. Her heart was pounding. Her breathing was intense and desperate. The Latin beauty just couldn’t stand having her feet tickled; her feet were HER MOST TICKLISH SPOT! Then the master’s faithful butler assisted him in pulling his chair back and seated him in front of Jennifer’s feet.
Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! she thought. I don’t wanna be tickled. My feet are just so ticklish.
Walter again reached over to the table and lifted a dome lid to reveal the Gigli star’s gorgeous, tan soles framed in the same fine china confinement as Amy Jo, with chopped cilantro sprinkled around her feet, and a jalapeno pepper on the side. The master reached for his electric toothbrush and readily turned it on. J Lo’s eyes were wide with worry as she heard the terrifying whirring sound.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPHHHHH! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHH!” she shrieked, in ticklish anticipation.
The master started at the base of Jennifer’s toes on her left foot. The whirling bristles of the electric toothbrush tickled the apparently uncharted canyons, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He then grabbed a stiff turkey feather that was to the left of his dessert plate and began sweeping it up and down Jennifer’s right sole, being attentive to her extra-sensitive zones.
“MMMMMMMMMMMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMMMPPPHHH! MHMHMHMHMPH! MHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMPPPHHHH!”
After giving her toes a good scrubbing, the master’s toothbrush traveled down the ball of her left foot to her tender arch and heel then back up again like the spinning brush of a street sweeper, while the feather on her right foot was been dragged down the length of her sole in long, measured caresses.
“HMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMMMMPPPPPHHHHH!”
Jennifer endured the ticklish impositions of this imaginative madman for the next several minutes until John thankfully gave her a break to catch her breath.
He stopped. Oh, thank god, Jennifer thought. Oh my god, my feet are so ticklish. I’m gonna kill this crazy asshole when I get outta here.
Resuming his madness, John put down the electric toothbrush and the feather he was using and picked up the plastic backscratcher to the right of his plate. With the meticulousness of a sculptor, he moved the backscratcher across Jennifer’s left sole erratically, concentrating on her ultra-sensitive arches. His other hand preoccupied the Hollywood hottie’s right sole, delivering a barrage of sporadic scratching, causing the star of The Cell to scream into her gag like a banshee; she jerked her head back and forth and pounded her head on the heavily padded floor mat under her.
“MMMMMPPPPPPHHHHH! MMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHH! MMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHH! HMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMHMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHH! MMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHH! MMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
HHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMHHMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHH!!!”
As her torment went on, Jennifer Lopez just couldn’t get over this suspicion she had that John Herring, the charmingly-nice owner of Stokes was somehow the man sitting at the table, tickling her to death. She didn’t want to believe it. She almost thought she was crazy for even suggesting it. He seemed so harmless and so hospitable. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, she thought. But then the word “fly” lingered in her mind and she started thinking about all the weird cooking creations that he was famous for; she never would’ve dream that she would wind up being his latest dish.
THE END
