Subject: The Door
From: [email protected] (VeryTiklsh)
Date: 2 Aug 1995 11:12:13 -0400
THE DOOR
As soon as I came to, I knew I was in trouble. Just how ticklish a
situation I was in I could never have guessed.
My ordeal began the Saturday morning of Homecoming Weekend. The girls in
my sorority, a mixed group of gals who liked to play hard and party twice
as hard, began drinking champagne over breakfast to begin the day in a
festive mood. By the time the big game was over, I'd long lost count of
the number of mimosas and assorted other liquors I'd consumed. All I knew
was the only way I got back to the house that afternoon was to be carried,
or dragged as I imagine it actually happened. The last thing I remember
was passing out on a couch in the parlor, a large recreational room in the
basement of our 70-year old house where the heart of the party always
beat.
It was when I came to that the real trouble began.
Looking back on those days, I suppose I was a brash young sister, cocky
and pretty full of myself. Even more annoying was my habit of playing
practical jokes. Pretty much every fellow sister had been the butt of one
really good one by my senior year, and I guess they decided it was payback
time. They got me back so thoroughly fiendishly, in fact, that it was
years before I ever even considered playing another practical joke.
When I came to, I was no longer on the couch. In an elaborate and bizarre
twist of events, I awoke affixed to a door leading from the party room to
a back service hallway. They'd actually cut five holes in the door
through which all of my appendages-feet, hands and head-were protruding.
On each of my wrists and ankles they attached thick, padded leather cuffs
with metal studs protruding, preventing me from pulling my hands or feet
back through the small holes. A similar cuff was placed around my neck on
both sides of the door, preventing my head from slipping out either. The
holes for my feet were about three feet off the floor, the holes for my
wrists slightly higher than the one for my head which was about two-thirds
from the top of the door. My butt rested on a bar stool so that my body
formed a slight "C" with the ends protruding through one side, the rest on
the other side. Furthermore, my shoes and nylons had been removed and
from the cold draft I felt on my stomach and the backs of my legs, pretty
much all of the rest of my clothing had been removed. The only thing I
knew for sure I still had on was my bra and underwear, although I would
soon come to find that to be of little protection for my terribly exposed
and vulnerable body.
While waking to find myself in modern day stocks was startling enough,
what really scared the shit out of me was what had been painted on the
door. The wall of the party room opposite me was covered in large mirrors
offering an ample view of my precarious situation. And what I quickly
noticed was that the door had been covered in brown paper and graffittied
with markers. In large, bold letters at the top, "It's Wendy's Turn to
Play the Fool" was written with "She Who Laughs Last Laughs HARDEST!"
written below my head. And between my bare feet they'd written "Please
Tickle Us!" in large purple letters.
I gulped hard and could feel sweat begin to form under the cuff around my
neck. They had truly found my greatest weakness and were planning to
fully exploit it. You see, I am agonizingly ticklish! A lone feather
scares me about as much as a loaded gun. My heart began pounding so
loudly, my head pulsed. "Shit, these bitches are crazy! I've got to get
loose, somehow," I yelled silently to myself. But of course, no matter
how hard I yanked, my feet and ankles were helplessly stuck.
I stared helplessly at the sight before me, a feeling of resignation
sweeping over me. They were thorough in their graffitti, providing
recommendations ("Don't Forget to Brush Between Her Toes"), remembrances
of purpose ("This Will Teach Her to Play Practical Jokes!") and even
templates (a big bullseye drawn in the center of one foot, a blank
tic-tac-toe board on the other). And worse, they'd tacked instruments on
strings to aid the lynch mob in their attack (a feather, razor point felt
tip, small paint brush and tooth brush). I gulped imagining those
bristles scraping up and down my poor soles.
My self pity was interrupted by the sound of someone coming down the
stairs. My heart began to race wondering if the entire fraternity was
about to spring to action. At first I was relieved to see my boyfriend,
Jake, a rugby player. "Shit, get me out of here, honey" I pleaded
anxiously, hoping he'd bail me out and save me from certain hell.
"Jesus, what happened to you?" he asked increduously. Walking up to me
and surveying the completely ludicrous predicament I was in, he launched
into a rather hideous, gutful of laughter at my predicament. It was at
that very moment, as his deep throated laughter rang in my ears, that it
suddenly hit me that he was probably the only one who knew how truly
ticklish I was, learned from hapless games of wrestling when we were drunk
and fooling around. During some of those matches, I was barefoot and he
quickly seized the opportunity winning virtually every time as I was
incapacitated from the intense sensations I experience whenever someone
tickles my feet.
"Jake!" I barked, in a commanding voice meant to snap him to reality and
know I meant business and wasn't going to be taken advantage of. But
there was an unforgettable glint in his eye, a certain mischeivous smile
forming on his face that made my heart sink. "Please?" I wimpered, my
voice changing to one of pleading for decency from my captor.
"Gee, sweetheart," he mocked insincerely, "you seem to be in quite a...er,
um...TICKLISH...situation here..." With that I knew it was all over. His
hand reached down toward my bare foot just waiting for him.
"Oh come on!" I cried out in desperation, bouncing on the stool to try to
wrench my feet to freedom. "Shit, don't do this...please! You know how
ticklish I am!"
I was suddenly reminded of an old Flintstone episode where Fred was
arguing with his neighbor over the location of a fence when the neighbor
picked the fence up and slammed it down on Fred's ankles. Naturally, it
was made of stone and trapped his always-bare feet on the neighbor's side.
At first, Fred was real pissed, yelling at the neighbor. But then, in a
truly stupid move, he paused when he realized just how vulnerable he was
(turns out Fred is quite ticklish like me!). Then he asked the neighbor
sheepishly "Gee, you wouldn't tickle my feet, would you?" Well, that was
all the encouragement his fiendish neighbor needed and the next thing Fred
knew, finger nails were dancing up and down Fred's sensitive feet, while
he laughed wildly and yanked until he freed his feet.
Suddenly I felt as stupid as Fred, suggesting a torture I feared more than
anything. And unfortunately, I didn't have Fred's neanderthal strength to
release my feet. (Why couldn't I have blurted out "don't force feed me
chocolate!" or some other more bearable torture?)
"Yeah, I know," Ted cajoled, "that's why I suggested it!" I didn't have
time to think about the fact that my boyfriend just admitted this whole
thing was his idea, because his finger nails made contact with my ultra
sensitive foot and I lost it, crying out with laughter and yanking on my
ankles trying desperately to free my tortured soles. I couldn't believe
it when, just like Fred Flintstone's goon neighbor did to him, Ted
punctuated his blow by taunting me with a "kitchy, kitchy, koo!" He
seemed to delight in my misery, his finger nails dancing merrily up and
down my sole while I blubbered what profanities I could manage between
laughs. Once his other hand joined the action with my other foot, I
really lost it laughing louder and harder than I'd ever laughed in my
life.
Which only served to alert the others in the house that the fun was in the
basement! The next thing I knew I was facing a dozen sorority sisters
smiling as they watched Ted reduce me to a giggling, ranting, begging
idiot. And thus began the most intense, unbelievably unbearable evening
I've ever endured. You have no idea how ticklish you are until you're
subjected to hours of relentless, uncontrolled exploration of your most
sensitive and vulnerable body parts by about twenty drunk college kids all
while completely helpless to stop or even minimize their assault.
More than 200 fingers scraped, poked, danced, scratched and stroked my
poor soles. The feather and brushes proved quite effective in drawing a
reaction from me as well, their barbs gliding endlessly up, down and
around my bare feet, no single centimeter of skin escaping unscathed. I
had never had the displeasure of being tickled with a feather in the
cracks and crevices between my toes until that night, but many party
guests found my reaction to it most delightful. Throughout the night,
there were numerous games of tic-tac-toe played with the razor point pin
on the board drawn on my sole-I donit know which were worse, X's or O's!
And when the board was written on until unplayable, some clever sole would
retrieve some warm water and soap, scrubbing my foot clean (a couple of
times with the toothbrush!) and then redrawing the board on my warmed and
softened foot.
I've never cried as much as I did that night, driven to tears by their
endless, merciless atacks upon my poor body. It didn't take someone long
to figure out that if I am so ticklish on my feet, then the rest of my
body would probably be quite sensitive as well (they were right!). I
about jumped out of my skin when my ribs were suddenly, unexpectedly
attacked by a pair of hands poking and squeezing them. Someone had
trekked through the back hall and discovered my completely unprotected
torso practically begging for punishment. I soon deduced it was one of my
sisters based on the intense sensations I felt from long and sharp finger
nails scraping all over my skin. She was ruthless, thoroughly exploring
and discovering every darned ticklish spot I had. My stomach, ribs,
armpits, arms, neck, even my nipples and back became sensitized to her
every touch.
I giggled and laughed uncontrollably helpless to stop her torment.
Unfortunately, everyone had taken momentary break from tickling my feet
and it didn't take them long to realize something was amiss-after all, I
was giggling and laughing hysterically yet no one was even touching me!
Soon, several more had joined the mystery woman behind me, all of them
joining together to torture my torso. Meanwhile, the rest of the group
had resumed their assault on my poor, helpless feet. It was absolutely
the most intense, unbearable, frustrating moments of my life.
From: [email protected] (VeryTiklsh)
Date: 2 Aug 1995 11:12:13 -0400
THE DOOR
As soon as I came to, I knew I was in trouble. Just how ticklish a
situation I was in I could never have guessed.
My ordeal began the Saturday morning of Homecoming Weekend. The girls in
my sorority, a mixed group of gals who liked to play hard and party twice
as hard, began drinking champagne over breakfast to begin the day in a
festive mood. By the time the big game was over, I'd long lost count of
the number of mimosas and assorted other liquors I'd consumed. All I knew
was the only way I got back to the house that afternoon was to be carried,
or dragged as I imagine it actually happened. The last thing I remember
was passing out on a couch in the parlor, a large recreational room in the
basement of our 70-year old house where the heart of the party always
beat.
It was when I came to that the real trouble began.
Looking back on those days, I suppose I was a brash young sister, cocky
and pretty full of myself. Even more annoying was my habit of playing
practical jokes. Pretty much every fellow sister had been the butt of one
really good one by my senior year, and I guess they decided it was payback
time. They got me back so thoroughly fiendishly, in fact, that it was
years before I ever even considered playing another practical joke.
When I came to, I was no longer on the couch. In an elaborate and bizarre
twist of events, I awoke affixed to a door leading from the party room to
a back service hallway. They'd actually cut five holes in the door
through which all of my appendages-feet, hands and head-were protruding.
On each of my wrists and ankles they attached thick, padded leather cuffs
with metal studs protruding, preventing me from pulling my hands or feet
back through the small holes. A similar cuff was placed around my neck on
both sides of the door, preventing my head from slipping out either. The
holes for my feet were about three feet off the floor, the holes for my
wrists slightly higher than the one for my head which was about two-thirds
from the top of the door. My butt rested on a bar stool so that my body
formed a slight "C" with the ends protruding through one side, the rest on
the other side. Furthermore, my shoes and nylons had been removed and
from the cold draft I felt on my stomach and the backs of my legs, pretty
much all of the rest of my clothing had been removed. The only thing I
knew for sure I still had on was my bra and underwear, although I would
soon come to find that to be of little protection for my terribly exposed
and vulnerable body.
While waking to find myself in modern day stocks was startling enough,
what really scared the shit out of me was what had been painted on the
door. The wall of the party room opposite me was covered in large mirrors
offering an ample view of my precarious situation. And what I quickly
noticed was that the door had been covered in brown paper and graffittied
with markers. In large, bold letters at the top, "It's Wendy's Turn to
Play the Fool" was written with "She Who Laughs Last Laughs HARDEST!"
written below my head. And between my bare feet they'd written "Please
Tickle Us!" in large purple letters.
I gulped hard and could feel sweat begin to form under the cuff around my
neck. They had truly found my greatest weakness and were planning to
fully exploit it. You see, I am agonizingly ticklish! A lone feather
scares me about as much as a loaded gun. My heart began pounding so
loudly, my head pulsed. "Shit, these bitches are crazy! I've got to get
loose, somehow," I yelled silently to myself. But of course, no matter
how hard I yanked, my feet and ankles were helplessly stuck.
I stared helplessly at the sight before me, a feeling of resignation
sweeping over me. They were thorough in their graffitti, providing
recommendations ("Don't Forget to Brush Between Her Toes"), remembrances
of purpose ("This Will Teach Her to Play Practical Jokes!") and even
templates (a big bullseye drawn in the center of one foot, a blank
tic-tac-toe board on the other). And worse, they'd tacked instruments on
strings to aid the lynch mob in their attack (a feather, razor point felt
tip, small paint brush and tooth brush). I gulped imagining those
bristles scraping up and down my poor soles.
My self pity was interrupted by the sound of someone coming down the
stairs. My heart began to race wondering if the entire fraternity was
about to spring to action. At first I was relieved to see my boyfriend,
Jake, a rugby player. "Shit, get me out of here, honey" I pleaded
anxiously, hoping he'd bail me out and save me from certain hell.
"Jesus, what happened to you?" he asked increduously. Walking up to me
and surveying the completely ludicrous predicament I was in, he launched
into a rather hideous, gutful of laughter at my predicament. It was at
that very moment, as his deep throated laughter rang in my ears, that it
suddenly hit me that he was probably the only one who knew how truly
ticklish I was, learned from hapless games of wrestling when we were drunk
and fooling around. During some of those matches, I was barefoot and he
quickly seized the opportunity winning virtually every time as I was
incapacitated from the intense sensations I experience whenever someone
tickles my feet.
"Jake!" I barked, in a commanding voice meant to snap him to reality and
know I meant business and wasn't going to be taken advantage of. But
there was an unforgettable glint in his eye, a certain mischeivous smile
forming on his face that made my heart sink. "Please?" I wimpered, my
voice changing to one of pleading for decency from my captor.
"Gee, sweetheart," he mocked insincerely, "you seem to be in quite a...er,
um...TICKLISH...situation here..." With that I knew it was all over. His
hand reached down toward my bare foot just waiting for him.
"Oh come on!" I cried out in desperation, bouncing on the stool to try to
wrench my feet to freedom. "Shit, don't do this...please! You know how
ticklish I am!"
I was suddenly reminded of an old Flintstone episode where Fred was
arguing with his neighbor over the location of a fence when the neighbor
picked the fence up and slammed it down on Fred's ankles. Naturally, it
was made of stone and trapped his always-bare feet on the neighbor's side.
At first, Fred was real pissed, yelling at the neighbor. But then, in a
truly stupid move, he paused when he realized just how vulnerable he was
(turns out Fred is quite ticklish like me!). Then he asked the neighbor
sheepishly "Gee, you wouldn't tickle my feet, would you?" Well, that was
all the encouragement his fiendish neighbor needed and the next thing Fred
knew, finger nails were dancing up and down Fred's sensitive feet, while
he laughed wildly and yanked until he freed his feet.
Suddenly I felt as stupid as Fred, suggesting a torture I feared more than
anything. And unfortunately, I didn't have Fred's neanderthal strength to
release my feet. (Why couldn't I have blurted out "don't force feed me
chocolate!" or some other more bearable torture?)
"Yeah, I know," Ted cajoled, "that's why I suggested it!" I didn't have
time to think about the fact that my boyfriend just admitted this whole
thing was his idea, because his finger nails made contact with my ultra
sensitive foot and I lost it, crying out with laughter and yanking on my
ankles trying desperately to free my tortured soles. I couldn't believe
it when, just like Fred Flintstone's goon neighbor did to him, Ted
punctuated his blow by taunting me with a "kitchy, kitchy, koo!" He
seemed to delight in my misery, his finger nails dancing merrily up and
down my sole while I blubbered what profanities I could manage between
laughs. Once his other hand joined the action with my other foot, I
really lost it laughing louder and harder than I'd ever laughed in my
life.
Which only served to alert the others in the house that the fun was in the
basement! The next thing I knew I was facing a dozen sorority sisters
smiling as they watched Ted reduce me to a giggling, ranting, begging
idiot. And thus began the most intense, unbelievably unbearable evening
I've ever endured. You have no idea how ticklish you are until you're
subjected to hours of relentless, uncontrolled exploration of your most
sensitive and vulnerable body parts by about twenty drunk college kids all
while completely helpless to stop or even minimize their assault.
More than 200 fingers scraped, poked, danced, scratched and stroked my
poor soles. The feather and brushes proved quite effective in drawing a
reaction from me as well, their barbs gliding endlessly up, down and
around my bare feet, no single centimeter of skin escaping unscathed. I
had never had the displeasure of being tickled with a feather in the
cracks and crevices between my toes until that night, but many party
guests found my reaction to it most delightful. Throughout the night,
there were numerous games of tic-tac-toe played with the razor point pin
on the board drawn on my sole-I donit know which were worse, X's or O's!
And when the board was written on until unplayable, some clever sole would
retrieve some warm water and soap, scrubbing my foot clean (a couple of
times with the toothbrush!) and then redrawing the board on my warmed and
softened foot.
I've never cried as much as I did that night, driven to tears by their
endless, merciless atacks upon my poor body. It didn't take someone long
to figure out that if I am so ticklish on my feet, then the rest of my
body would probably be quite sensitive as well (they were right!). I
about jumped out of my skin when my ribs were suddenly, unexpectedly
attacked by a pair of hands poking and squeezing them. Someone had
trekked through the back hall and discovered my completely unprotected
torso practically begging for punishment. I soon deduced it was one of my
sisters based on the intense sensations I felt from long and sharp finger
nails scraping all over my skin. She was ruthless, thoroughly exploring
and discovering every darned ticklish spot I had. My stomach, ribs,
armpits, arms, neck, even my nipples and back became sensitized to her
every touch.
I giggled and laughed uncontrollably helpless to stop her torment.
Unfortunately, everyone had taken momentary break from tickling my feet
and it didn't take them long to realize something was amiss-after all, I
was giggling and laughing hysterically yet no one was even touching me!
Soon, several more had joined the mystery woman behind me, all of them
joining together to torture my torso. Meanwhile, the rest of the group
had resumed their assault on my poor, helpless feet. It was absolutely
the most intense, unbearable, frustrating moments of my life.
