clean_kitchen
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- Aug 14, 2002
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Tables Turned, part 2
by clean_kitchen
Part 1: http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=52944
<pre>
I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew I would have to find a
way to be there.
The memory of our ordeal was fresh in my mind, made moreso as I
continuously replayed the events in my mind. What an unbelievable dream
come true! Not 48 hours ago two deranged women broke into my house with
the sole purpose of tying my wife and I to the bed and tickling us silly.
The odds of such women existing outside of stories posted on message boards
were tiny, and the odds that they would actually pick me were
infinitesimal.
And yet, it had happened. I got home first and they were waiting.
I was pinned to the floor and begging for them to stop before I even knew
what was happening. Then my wife got home. With an unrealized threat of
actual violence, they stripped us to our underwear and tied us stretched
out and face down beside each on our bed. Then they tickled us.
As eager as they were skillful, they got us good. They even got us
to play a game in which they tickled me until I told them where to tickle
my wife, and then they tickled her there until she told them where to
tickle me. They continued like this for hours, ultimately leaving us
thoroughly tickled and exhausted.
The evening ended with one final interrogation. Starting with me
and eventually moving to my wife, they let loose with one final barrage of
incredible tickling with the purpose of having me tell them what
unsuspecting couple should be their next victims. I -- we -- resisted as
best we could, but we finally relented and gave them the names and address
of my wife's brother and his wife. The two women told us they would visit
my wife's brother on Sunday night. They left us tied with the threat not
to warn their next victims, or they would revisit us, and next time they
wouldn't be so "nice."
I wasn't sure that would be such a bad thing.
. . .
Sunday afternoon came quickly. Neither my wife nor I had slept
well; she for fear that the women would be back and I for fear they
wouldn't. We didn't talk about it much. I knew how she felt about it, and
she assumed I felt the same as her. I didn't attempt to correct her.
The only obsession stronger than the memory of what had happened
was the thought of what was going to happen. We had seen my wife's
brother, Paul, and his wife, Natalie, that morning. We relayed the story
of our ordeal while leaving out the last bit about them. I watched Natalie
instinctively hug her arms a little tighter to her sides and tuck her feet
under her chair. I had never seen anyone tickle her, but I could tell she
was ticklish and she knew it.
My mind was racing to find a way I could be there to see it. I
wasn't really into seeing Paul get it, but knowing that those women were
going to tickle Natalie tonight was driving me mad. I knew I had to be
there.
There were two dangers inherent to my scheme. The first and most
obvious was the danger of being discovered by the intruders and getting
tickle tortured again. That was definitely a risk I was willing to take.
Not only was the reward worth it, but I knew I really wanted them to tickle
me again.
The second danger was social in nature. What if I was somehow
implicated in what was going on? I wasn't ready for people to find out I
was such a tickling enthusiast. I could avoid that under the pretense of
trying to help Paul and Natalie, but my wife would be outraged to know I
risked her getting tickled again.
I decided I had to go for it. There was no way I would miss this.
I gave my wife a clever and surprisingly believable excuse for why I needed
to go out for a while that evening and why I might be a bit late coming
home. I slipped the spare key to Paul's house in my pocket as I walked out
the door.
. . .
It was dark when I arrived at Paul and Natalie's house. There were
no lights in the windows, but the garage door was open and their car was
inside. I slunk in to the garage and found the door into the house was
open a crack. Perfect. The open door gave me the excuse I would need: if
the intruders weren't here, I could simply say I was driving by and noticed
an open door.
I slipped into the entryway. I could immediately hear the sound of
muffled laughter coming from another part of the house. My luck continued
in that all the lights were off, leaving me plenty of shadows in which to
hide. (That's not unimportant given that I stand over six-and-a-half feet
tall. I don't exactly blend in.)
I crawled into the living room and ducked behind the couch. From
there I could see at an angle through the hallway into the bedroom. The
door was wide open, providing an unobscured view of what was happening
inside. My heart seemed to screech to a halt at what I saw.
. . .
On the bed, tied on her back at her wrists and ankles, arms high
above her head, was Natalie, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. She twisted
and struggled as best she could, filling the room with a steady stream of
laughter. At the foot of the bed with her back to the door was one of the
intruders. Her hands flicked and skittered up and down Natalie's soles
without remorse for her desperate pleas.
It was a beautiful sight and would have been worth the trip all by
itself, but my attention was drawn to the other source of laughter coming
from the room. The laugh wasn't masculine, but high and nearly a cackle.
It was my wife's mother! She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse.
The women had tied her to a chair, her feet tied to another chair in front
of her. The second intruder was vigorously scribbling her fingernails
across her wriggling soles in a random pattern.
My wife's mother, Samantha, was still attractive in her late
forties. Petite like my wife and Natalie, her feet were also small, but
wider at the toes. Like my wife's and Natalie's, they were also extremely
ticklish.
I was almost light headed from the sight of the two women being
mercilessly tickled on their feet. How often had I fantasized about this?
it was almost surreal. But where was Paul?
The intruders had the same question. The two women stopped
tickling their victim's feet, leaving them both giggling and gasping for
air, pleading for the tickling to stop.
"Like we said," one of the intruders responded, "we want to know
when your husband is getting home."
"I ... told you ... he's on ... a trip for work ... He left
today...," Natalie panted, still recovering from the latest interrogation
session.
"We don't believe you," the intruder said, matter-of-factly.
"Please ... it's the truth ... don't tickle me ..."
"OK," said the intruder with a sly grin, "We'll give you a break."
"Thank you ... thank you ..." Natalie seemed to relax a bit,
closing her eyes, her breathing beginning to return to normal. The
intruder walked over to Samantha.
"If you won't tell us," she said as she kneeled behind the bound
woman's chair, "perhaps your mother-in-law will."
I guessed they learned that bit of information earlier in the
evening. Natalie sprang back to life, begging them to leave Samantha
alone.
"She doesn't know anything! She just stopped by because she knew
Paul would be gone!"
"Too bad for her," the woman taunted. "Maybe you should have
thought of that before you lied to us."
"Please!" Samantha was now begging on behalf of herself. "She's
not lying! She's not Lyyyyyeeeeeeeeehehehehahahahahaahahahah!"
The woman at Samantha's feet resumed her work on the exposed soles,
this time drawing slow and deliberate paths with her nails. Samantha went
crazy, laughing, squealing and begging incoherently. Natalie, too was
yelling for the intruders to stop but she was drowned out by the high
staccato laughter of the elder victim.
Samantha's eyes, previously shut tight opened wide with ticklish
surprise as the second intruder snaked her hands underneath her blouse and
began running her fingers across Samantha's sides and tummy like a couple
of spastic spiders. Samantha struggled so much it seemed the chairs would
break, but they stayed intact. One particularly strong attempt to escape
the torturous fingers managed to upend the two chairs, leaving Samantha
still bound to the chairs laying on her side. The tickling did not let up.
The intruder at Samantha's feet moved up between the two chairs and
began tickling the backs of Samantha's legs, bringing new squeals from the
hysterical woman. She alternated between light scratches with her nails
and squeezing sensitive areas around her knees.
Natalie strained to see what the women were doing to Samantha,
still begging them to stop. Her pleas, while sincere, sounded only
half-hearted. She must have known that an answer to the request to stop
tickling her mother-in-law would certainly include them tickling her.
Samantha's ordeal eventually did stop. The women left the
exhausted woman on the floor, still begging for mercy even though the
torment had ceased. The women approached Natalie, who began to panic.
There was no banter, no questions, just a single statement before the first
tickled scream: "Your turn."
The women knelt on either side of Natalie's outstretched frame and
began tickling her sides. They poked an squeezed up and down her exposed
ribcage, bringing short squeals of laughter from the helpless woman.
Natalie's desperation grew as one of the women pulled her shirt up
and tucked it behind her head.
"Now for some real fun," she commented each of them produced a pair
of feathers.
Natalie began to beg but her sentence dissolved into screaming
laughter as the feathers began to dance over her nearly naked torso. They
traced up and down her sides, danced along her tummy, twirled in her
armpits and licked at her chest and neck. She squealed and giggled as the
intruders tickled her, lost in the terrible sensations.
I found myself absentmindedly running my fingers along my own side,
imagining -- remembering -- what it was like to be in her spot, wishing I
was in her place again. That desire, however, was overridden by the joy of
watching natalie get it. I wished it would never end.
Unfortunately for Natalie, the intruders agreed with me. They
continued the feather torture for several minutes, now lingering on
especially sensitive areas of her upper body, of which there many.
Natalie's torso finally received a much needed break, but Natalie
did not. Each woman straddled an ankle, facing Natalie's head and began to
apply the feathers to her legs. Natalie's laughter didn't break stride at
the new sensations. The feathers traced up and down her legs in random
trails from her ankles to her shorts about two-thirds of the way up her
thighs. One of the women slid her feathers several inches up the leg of
her shorts and along her hipline eliciting heightened squeals from the
already hysterical girl. One of the women put down her feathers and went
to work on Natalie's legs with her fingers. The difference in sensations
was maddening.
I knew what was coming when the intruders slid off the end of the
bed, and I'm sure Natalie did, too. Even giddy and exhausted from being
tickled so bad, she renewed her pleas in earnest as they approached her
feet.
"No! Not that! Get away! Not the feet! Not the feet!"
The women responded with fingers and feathers. Each glided a
feather along a smooth and sensitive arch while dancing the fingers of the
other hand on a heel or under the toes.
Natalie laughed with new strength, as if they had just begun to
tickle her. She alternated between high squeals and silent, breathless
laughter. On of the women bent Natalie's toes back and slid the feather in
between her toes. Natalie was lost in the sensations. There was nothing
in her world but her feet and the things that touched them.
I was nearly as single minded, completely enthralled by those
tickled feet. I glanced over at Samantha. She had long since recovered
from her little session, and now lay quietly watching, pity in her eyes but
saying nothing, hoping there was no next turn for her.
I hadn't realized they had stopped tickling Natalie because of her
lingering laughter. That's the same time I realized I couldn't see one of
the intruders. Not good. The remaining woman was talking to Natalie,
telling her that her friend had gone to get her some water from the
kitchen.
Crap! The kitchen was right behind where I was hiding. If the
intruder was in the kitchen, there was a good chance...
"Hello, little spy." The voice behind me was calm, feminine and
familiar.
</pre>
by clean_kitchen
Part 1: http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=52944
<pre>
I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew I would have to find a
way to be there.
The memory of our ordeal was fresh in my mind, made moreso as I
continuously replayed the events in my mind. What an unbelievable dream
come true! Not 48 hours ago two deranged women broke into my house with
the sole purpose of tying my wife and I to the bed and tickling us silly.
The odds of such women existing outside of stories posted on message boards
were tiny, and the odds that they would actually pick me were
infinitesimal.
And yet, it had happened. I got home first and they were waiting.
I was pinned to the floor and begging for them to stop before I even knew
what was happening. Then my wife got home. With an unrealized threat of
actual violence, they stripped us to our underwear and tied us stretched
out and face down beside each on our bed. Then they tickled us.
As eager as they were skillful, they got us good. They even got us
to play a game in which they tickled me until I told them where to tickle
my wife, and then they tickled her there until she told them where to
tickle me. They continued like this for hours, ultimately leaving us
thoroughly tickled and exhausted.
The evening ended with one final interrogation. Starting with me
and eventually moving to my wife, they let loose with one final barrage of
incredible tickling with the purpose of having me tell them what
unsuspecting couple should be their next victims. I -- we -- resisted as
best we could, but we finally relented and gave them the names and address
of my wife's brother and his wife. The two women told us they would visit
my wife's brother on Sunday night. They left us tied with the threat not
to warn their next victims, or they would revisit us, and next time they
wouldn't be so "nice."
I wasn't sure that would be such a bad thing.
. . .
Sunday afternoon came quickly. Neither my wife nor I had slept
well; she for fear that the women would be back and I for fear they
wouldn't. We didn't talk about it much. I knew how she felt about it, and
she assumed I felt the same as her. I didn't attempt to correct her.
The only obsession stronger than the memory of what had happened
was the thought of what was going to happen. We had seen my wife's
brother, Paul, and his wife, Natalie, that morning. We relayed the story
of our ordeal while leaving out the last bit about them. I watched Natalie
instinctively hug her arms a little tighter to her sides and tuck her feet
under her chair. I had never seen anyone tickle her, but I could tell she
was ticklish and she knew it.
My mind was racing to find a way I could be there to see it. I
wasn't really into seeing Paul get it, but knowing that those women were
going to tickle Natalie tonight was driving me mad. I knew I had to be
there.
There were two dangers inherent to my scheme. The first and most
obvious was the danger of being discovered by the intruders and getting
tickle tortured again. That was definitely a risk I was willing to take.
Not only was the reward worth it, but I knew I really wanted them to tickle
me again.
The second danger was social in nature. What if I was somehow
implicated in what was going on? I wasn't ready for people to find out I
was such a tickling enthusiast. I could avoid that under the pretense of
trying to help Paul and Natalie, but my wife would be outraged to know I
risked her getting tickled again.
I decided I had to go for it. There was no way I would miss this.
I gave my wife a clever and surprisingly believable excuse for why I needed
to go out for a while that evening and why I might be a bit late coming
home. I slipped the spare key to Paul's house in my pocket as I walked out
the door.
. . .
It was dark when I arrived at Paul and Natalie's house. There were
no lights in the windows, but the garage door was open and their car was
inside. I slunk in to the garage and found the door into the house was
open a crack. Perfect. The open door gave me the excuse I would need: if
the intruders weren't here, I could simply say I was driving by and noticed
an open door.
I slipped into the entryway. I could immediately hear the sound of
muffled laughter coming from another part of the house. My luck continued
in that all the lights were off, leaving me plenty of shadows in which to
hide. (That's not unimportant given that I stand over six-and-a-half feet
tall. I don't exactly blend in.)
I crawled into the living room and ducked behind the couch. From
there I could see at an angle through the hallway into the bedroom. The
door was wide open, providing an unobscured view of what was happening
inside. My heart seemed to screech to a halt at what I saw.
. . .
On the bed, tied on her back at her wrists and ankles, arms high
above her head, was Natalie, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. She twisted
and struggled as best she could, filling the room with a steady stream of
laughter. At the foot of the bed with her back to the door was one of the
intruders. Her hands flicked and skittered up and down Natalie's soles
without remorse for her desperate pleas.
It was a beautiful sight and would have been worth the trip all by
itself, but my attention was drawn to the other source of laughter coming
from the room. The laugh wasn't masculine, but high and nearly a cackle.
It was my wife's mother! She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse.
The women had tied her to a chair, her feet tied to another chair in front
of her. The second intruder was vigorously scribbling her fingernails
across her wriggling soles in a random pattern.
My wife's mother, Samantha, was still attractive in her late
forties. Petite like my wife and Natalie, her feet were also small, but
wider at the toes. Like my wife's and Natalie's, they were also extremely
ticklish.
I was almost light headed from the sight of the two women being
mercilessly tickled on their feet. How often had I fantasized about this?
it was almost surreal. But where was Paul?
The intruders had the same question. The two women stopped
tickling their victim's feet, leaving them both giggling and gasping for
air, pleading for the tickling to stop.
"Like we said," one of the intruders responded, "we want to know
when your husband is getting home."
"I ... told you ... he's on ... a trip for work ... He left
today...," Natalie panted, still recovering from the latest interrogation
session.
"We don't believe you," the intruder said, matter-of-factly.
"Please ... it's the truth ... don't tickle me ..."
"OK," said the intruder with a sly grin, "We'll give you a break."
"Thank you ... thank you ..." Natalie seemed to relax a bit,
closing her eyes, her breathing beginning to return to normal. The
intruder walked over to Samantha.
"If you won't tell us," she said as she kneeled behind the bound
woman's chair, "perhaps your mother-in-law will."
I guessed they learned that bit of information earlier in the
evening. Natalie sprang back to life, begging them to leave Samantha
alone.
"She doesn't know anything! She just stopped by because she knew
Paul would be gone!"
"Too bad for her," the woman taunted. "Maybe you should have
thought of that before you lied to us."
"Please!" Samantha was now begging on behalf of herself. "She's
not lying! She's not Lyyyyyeeeeeeeeehehehehahahahahaahahahah!"
The woman at Samantha's feet resumed her work on the exposed soles,
this time drawing slow and deliberate paths with her nails. Samantha went
crazy, laughing, squealing and begging incoherently. Natalie, too was
yelling for the intruders to stop but she was drowned out by the high
staccato laughter of the elder victim.
Samantha's eyes, previously shut tight opened wide with ticklish
surprise as the second intruder snaked her hands underneath her blouse and
began running her fingers across Samantha's sides and tummy like a couple
of spastic spiders. Samantha struggled so much it seemed the chairs would
break, but they stayed intact. One particularly strong attempt to escape
the torturous fingers managed to upend the two chairs, leaving Samantha
still bound to the chairs laying on her side. The tickling did not let up.
The intruder at Samantha's feet moved up between the two chairs and
began tickling the backs of Samantha's legs, bringing new squeals from the
hysterical woman. She alternated between light scratches with her nails
and squeezing sensitive areas around her knees.
Natalie strained to see what the women were doing to Samantha,
still begging them to stop. Her pleas, while sincere, sounded only
half-hearted. She must have known that an answer to the request to stop
tickling her mother-in-law would certainly include them tickling her.
Samantha's ordeal eventually did stop. The women left the
exhausted woman on the floor, still begging for mercy even though the
torment had ceased. The women approached Natalie, who began to panic.
There was no banter, no questions, just a single statement before the first
tickled scream: "Your turn."
The women knelt on either side of Natalie's outstretched frame and
began tickling her sides. They poked an squeezed up and down her exposed
ribcage, bringing short squeals of laughter from the helpless woman.
Natalie's desperation grew as one of the women pulled her shirt up
and tucked it behind her head.
"Now for some real fun," she commented each of them produced a pair
of feathers.
Natalie began to beg but her sentence dissolved into screaming
laughter as the feathers began to dance over her nearly naked torso. They
traced up and down her sides, danced along her tummy, twirled in her
armpits and licked at her chest and neck. She squealed and giggled as the
intruders tickled her, lost in the terrible sensations.
I found myself absentmindedly running my fingers along my own side,
imagining -- remembering -- what it was like to be in her spot, wishing I
was in her place again. That desire, however, was overridden by the joy of
watching natalie get it. I wished it would never end.
Unfortunately for Natalie, the intruders agreed with me. They
continued the feather torture for several minutes, now lingering on
especially sensitive areas of her upper body, of which there many.
Natalie's torso finally received a much needed break, but Natalie
did not. Each woman straddled an ankle, facing Natalie's head and began to
apply the feathers to her legs. Natalie's laughter didn't break stride at
the new sensations. The feathers traced up and down her legs in random
trails from her ankles to her shorts about two-thirds of the way up her
thighs. One of the women slid her feathers several inches up the leg of
her shorts and along her hipline eliciting heightened squeals from the
already hysterical girl. One of the women put down her feathers and went
to work on Natalie's legs with her fingers. The difference in sensations
was maddening.
I knew what was coming when the intruders slid off the end of the
bed, and I'm sure Natalie did, too. Even giddy and exhausted from being
tickled so bad, she renewed her pleas in earnest as they approached her
feet.
"No! Not that! Get away! Not the feet! Not the feet!"
The women responded with fingers and feathers. Each glided a
feather along a smooth and sensitive arch while dancing the fingers of the
other hand on a heel or under the toes.
Natalie laughed with new strength, as if they had just begun to
tickle her. She alternated between high squeals and silent, breathless
laughter. On of the women bent Natalie's toes back and slid the feather in
between her toes. Natalie was lost in the sensations. There was nothing
in her world but her feet and the things that touched them.
I was nearly as single minded, completely enthralled by those
tickled feet. I glanced over at Samantha. She had long since recovered
from her little session, and now lay quietly watching, pity in her eyes but
saying nothing, hoping there was no next turn for her.
I hadn't realized they had stopped tickling Natalie because of her
lingering laughter. That's the same time I realized I couldn't see one of
the intruders. Not good. The remaining woman was talking to Natalie,
telling her that her friend had gone to get her some water from the
kitchen.
Crap! The kitchen was right behind where I was hiding. If the
intruder was in the kitchen, there was a good chance...
"Hello, little spy." The voice behind me was calm, feminine and
familiar.
</pre>
