tenderfeet
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Poster's Note: This is one of my all-time favorite tickling stories, but if it happened to me, I would do without the turn around at the end.
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Cult Hysteria, by Don Keefer
The motel room was completely dark.
"Is there anybody in here?" Debbie Conklin asked tentatively as she stood in the doorway. She was afraid her editor had given her the wrong room number.
"Come in," said a nervous female voice. "But don't turn on any lights."
Debbie sighed but went along with the spy novel scenario. As a reporter for the Times-Leader she ran into every kind of nut on the market. Her recent investigative series on cults had exposed her to even more.
"I'm going to give you the entry handshake that will allow you to attend the initiation meeting out at the camp," her informant said, getting right down to business. "The rest is up to you."
"That's all I need," Debbie promised.
Her series was almost complete. The only local cult left to investigate looked to be the easiest. It was a group of militant feminists that called themselves "The Sisterhood" and practiced their sexual politics with a religious zeal. The group had been described as everything from an innocent club to dangerous band of zealots. The problem was that no one knew for sure what the quasi-cult was all about.
Membership was secret and the faithful met at a wooded retreat south of the city. Law enforcement agencies had paid little attention to the group for very practical reason. None of the law officers had a chance to infiltrate and the female ones were all too well known. Sneaking up on one of the meetings was equally out of the question. The inner fenced-in compound was reportedly guarded by leopards. Female ones, of course.
The 24-year old brunette knew she as the perfect one to break the silence. As a young, pretty career woman, she would blend in perfectly. A surprise offer from an informant to show the entry handshake would make it even easier.
"Use your left hand and hold it like this," the invisible woman said, grabbing Debbie's hand. She repeated it a second time and that was the end of the meeting.
"Stay here until I've gone," the woman said as she opened the door.
***
The parking lot outside the camp of "The Sisterhood" was full when Debbie pulled her car into the secluded area. She slipped her mini-recorder into her purse and headed for the main entrance. She was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. The only precaution Debbie had taken was to wear tennis shoes in case she had to do some running. Not that it was likely, she reminded herself.
A tall busty blonde was at the door. Her sleeves were rolled up and the work shirt open to expose her cleavage. Her uniform was completed by tight knee-length pants and high-heeled sandals.
"Welcome," the guard said, not extending her hand.
Debbie reached out with her left hand to deliver the grip she had been taught. Piece of cake, she thought. This story would be a snap.
"Follow me," the guard said with no change of expression.
Debbie followed down a short corridor and through a narrow metal door. The room was empty. No crowd of singing women. No chanting. Just a few wooded posts with metal rings attached to them.
"Why are we here?" Debbie asked. Her stomach was starting to churn.
"Because you shook my left hand," the Amazon said. She was grinning now. "That's the signal that you're a traitor!"
Before the dumbfounded reporter could utter either a denial or a confession, 2 more members of the group entered the room. They were cut from the same mold as the first; big, beautiful and strong. There was no chance that Debbie would be able to fight her way out.
"I'm leaving," she said, using her most assertive voice.
"Not yet, bitch," warned the redhead who had entered with the brunette. "We want to know who you are and who you work for."
"Well, you're not going to know anything!" Debbie said. Her mouth was very dry.
"You'll tell us," promised the blonde. "We have ways to ..."
"To hell with you ways!" Debbie blurted out. "My superiors know I'm here. If yo kill me, they'll catch you. If you beat me or burn me or tear my fingernails out, I'll go to the authorities and they'll close down your twisted Tuppeware party here. This is no movie we're in, you know."
"You're absolutely right," admitted the redhead. She had the smile of a beauty queen turned evil. "But you'll still tell us everything we want to know."
Two of them grabbed Debbie's arms while the other went through her purse. They found the recorder but nothing else. She had left all of her ID at home.
After putting up a struggle, Debbie found herself nude and forced to the floor with her bare back against a square wooded support beam. Debbie was surprised when they put a pillow down to=7F protect her ass from the cold cement floor.
A roll of strong white cord was brought over from a storage closet behind her. They lifted her arms up as high as they could go on the beam and tied Debbie's wrists there.
Four loops were used around each wrist. Even if she had been Wonder Woman, Debbie doubted if she would have been able to move her arms an inch. Her mind touched on what possible tortures they might have planned, but left that subject quickly.
Three more loops of rope bound her slender legs just below the knees. The women then pressed the helpless reporter thighs up against her breasts and lifted her ankles up level with her face. A round wooden post was set in the floor in front of her and Debbie's feet rested on 2 pegs extending from it like a cross. Four more loops of the unbreakable rope held her ankles fast to the pegs.
"Change your mind yet, Sugar?" the redhead asked. She was obviously the chief interrogator and took an obscene pleasure in having a bound beauty at her disposal.
They wouldn't dare do anything to me, Debbie told herself. This is just to scare me into talking.
"OK, have it your way," the redhead purred. "Excuse us while we get our tools."
No matter how she turned her head, Debbie couldn't see behind her. What are they getting from that close, she wondered frantically. Whips? Torches? Knives?
The threesome loved the suspense they had her in. They crept up slowly behind her. Debbie could hear them breathing. Just as the reporter was about to go crazy with anticipation, a hand came into her field of vision from either side. One held a long blue feather. The other held a feather duster.
Debbie's mouth dropped open in horror. Her breathing stopped. The realization of exactly what kind of torture was in store for her triggered a long forgotten memory of such a torture she had endured at the hands of the neighborhood bully.
The redheaded vixen strolled around in front of Debbie, stroking a red feather across her own neck. "See if you can convince her to tell us who she works for, girls," she ordered.
Both feathers floated up to touch Debbie's bound wrists. They traced a lazy course down her forearms, swirling around and around until reaching her hairless underarm. Then they danced up and down in the ticklish hollows.
Debbie went through the whole catalog of reactions. She jerked her arms, closed her eyes, bit her lip, and shook her head. The tickling didn't stop.
"Noooooooooo! HahahahahahahahGodplease! Stop it! STOP IT!!!"
Guided by her unseen tormentors, the feathers continued to scrape softly across Debbie's sensitive skin. The delicate area of the underside of her breasts was stroked mercilessly. Her nipples were erect and signaling for attention but the feathers ignored her need for release of the growing sexual tension.
After what seemed like hours of torture (but was really only a few minutes), Debbie screamed, "HahahahahaIworkhahahahahforhahah!! For for... Times-Leader!"
The redhead put up her hand and the tickling stopped. "Now we're getting somewhere. A reporter, huh? What's your name?"
"Erma Bombeck," Debbie said, gasping for air.
Her tormentor was amused. "I'm honored. Well, since you like to write such rib-tickling columns, Ms. Bombeck, perhaps you'd like to try the Real Thing!"
Four hands poked into Debbie's sides. She exploded into instant hysteria.
"Stophahahahahahhahkillingmehahahahahahahnomorenomorehaha!"
The more she screamed, the worse the rib-tickling got. They wouldn't even stop long enough to let her confess. Finally, one pair of relentless hands jostled her sides while the other pair danced like spider's legs across her silken underarms.
After five minutes the ordeal ended. Debbie's brown hair was plastered to her head with sweat. Her wrists and ankles were sore from vain attempts to struggle free.
"My . . . name . . . . is Debbie Conklin," the weary reporter gasped as soon as she was able. She couldn't believe that they had broken her so easily.
"Debbie Conklin. The cult series bitch," the redhead sneered. "Think you'll still write about us?"
"Never," Debbie lied. "Not a word as long as I live."
"Fine," the redhead said. "Now tell us who tipped you to that handshake so we can deal with her."
"I don't know who she was."
"A good description will do."
"We met in a dark motel room, I didn't get a good look at her," the nude beauty explained.
The evil looking redhead twirled the feather between her palms, "That room had better get lighter in your memory real fast. Don't make us start in on these pretty little bare soles here."
"No!" Debbie moaned. "Not my feet! I couldn't . . . I mean it wouldn't do any good. I can't tell you anything else!"
"What do you say we have Regina try to change her mind, girls?" the redhead suggested. The other two nodded eagerly.
"She seems pretty ticklish," the blonde said as she left the room. "We'll have to watch it that Regina doesn't tickle her to death."
"Who's Regina?" Debbie nervously inquired.
"Oh, just our foot-tickling expert," one of the women said. "Very effective and completely without mercy."
"She doesn't like her victims wiggling their feet, though," the redhead said. With a piece of thin cord, she tied Debbie's big toes together and attached them to the post. Her ticklish feet were now totally immobile.
"Please don't tie my toes," Debbie pleaded. "Please! At least let me move my feet around. I'll go nuts if I can't move at all!"
Her three torturers smiled at her request. "You just might do that by the time Regina gets though with you," the redhead smirked.
Debbie's terror multiplied when the blonde returned with Regina. Her torturer was . . . a large female leopard!
"What . . .???"
"Regina has quite a sweet tooth," the brunette said. She set a pot of honey on top of the post Debbie's' feet were tied to. With a brush, she started coating the barefoot reporter's soles with the sticky honey.
The effect of the brush on her soles tickled Debbie so much she could hardly bear it. She was determined not to give in and fought hard to suppress her laughter, but it was hopeless.
Her captors giggled at the sight of Debbie's predicament.
"Get the full picture yet?" the redhead purred. She picked up her feather and used it to tease the underside of Debbie thighs. "Regina has a very big tongue. It's all soft and wet and raspy, too."
Debbie's face became a mask of horror. "I can't tell you anything. Please don't do this to me!!"
"We'll soon know if you're lying. Nobody as ticklish as you could stand that tongue on her tootsies for long."
Before she could make up any more of a description of the informant, the big cat pulled free from the blonde's grip. Her long tongue flicked out to lick the sweet honey off Debbie's left sole.
Hysteria was the instant reaction. Debbie couldn't even control her mouth to plead for mercy. The sensations took over her entire body and brain.
Regina licked away calmly, totally unaffected by the hysterical laughter coming from Debbie. Tears were soon streaming from her eyes as the tickling sensations overwhelmed her. She would have confessed to *anything* to make that tongue quit sliding up and down her delicate arches, but there was no way for her to stop laughing long enough to speak.
The three inquisitors were still not happy with the reaction.
"She doesn't have anything to tell us," the redhead said, "but I want to make sure she remembers her visit here."
Her brunette companion dripped more honey on Debbie's wildly flexing toes. Regina's devilish tongue was soon licking away at the ultra-sensitive skin there. The blonde hurried behind their squirming captive to play her ribs like piano keys. Finally, the leader of the torture team put her feather to work on the edges of Debbie's ****. She made sure to avoid touching her clit so the unrelieved sexual tension was soon driving their captive almost as crazy as the tickling was.
The abused reporter was about to slip into merciful unconsciousness when the police broke down the door to the torture chamber. When Debbie's informant had learned of her capture the frightened woman had escaped and called the authorities.
Debbie was soon untied and dressed. The officers were about to lead her sullen torturers away when she made a suggestion.
"Why don't you fellows do a really thorough search of the rest of the compound to look for drugs or something?"
"Not a bad idea," one of the young cops agreed. "But who'd watch our prisoners?"
"Oh, I can do that. Just tie them to those poles . . . and put their feet up on those pegs. Regina and I will keep an eye and maybe a tongue on them."
The two officers smiled and bound the struggling women in place. All three were screaming about police brutality.
"Take you time, guys," Debbie said as the pair left. "Maybe an hour or two. Us girls will just wait here and have a few laughs."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Cult Hysteria, by Don Keefer
The motel room was completely dark.
"Is there anybody in here?" Debbie Conklin asked tentatively as she stood in the doorway. She was afraid her editor had given her the wrong room number.
"Come in," said a nervous female voice. "But don't turn on any lights."
Debbie sighed but went along with the spy novel scenario. As a reporter for the Times-Leader she ran into every kind of nut on the market. Her recent investigative series on cults had exposed her to even more.
"I'm going to give you the entry handshake that will allow you to attend the initiation meeting out at the camp," her informant said, getting right down to business. "The rest is up to you."
"That's all I need," Debbie promised.
Her series was almost complete. The only local cult left to investigate looked to be the easiest. It was a group of militant feminists that called themselves "The Sisterhood" and practiced their sexual politics with a religious zeal. The group had been described as everything from an innocent club to dangerous band of zealots. The problem was that no one knew for sure what the quasi-cult was all about.
Membership was secret and the faithful met at a wooded retreat south of the city. Law enforcement agencies had paid little attention to the group for very practical reason. None of the law officers had a chance to infiltrate and the female ones were all too well known. Sneaking up on one of the meetings was equally out of the question. The inner fenced-in compound was reportedly guarded by leopards. Female ones, of course.
The 24-year old brunette knew she as the perfect one to break the silence. As a young, pretty career woman, she would blend in perfectly. A surprise offer from an informant to show the entry handshake would make it even easier.
"Use your left hand and hold it like this," the invisible woman said, grabbing Debbie's hand. She repeated it a second time and that was the end of the meeting.
"Stay here until I've gone," the woman said as she opened the door.
***
The parking lot outside the camp of "The Sisterhood" was full when Debbie pulled her car into the secluded area. She slipped her mini-recorder into her purse and headed for the main entrance. She was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. The only precaution Debbie had taken was to wear tennis shoes in case she had to do some running. Not that it was likely, she reminded herself.
A tall busty blonde was at the door. Her sleeves were rolled up and the work shirt open to expose her cleavage. Her uniform was completed by tight knee-length pants and high-heeled sandals.
"Welcome," the guard said, not extending her hand.
Debbie reached out with her left hand to deliver the grip she had been taught. Piece of cake, she thought. This story would be a snap.
"Follow me," the guard said with no change of expression.
Debbie followed down a short corridor and through a narrow metal door. The room was empty. No crowd of singing women. No chanting. Just a few wooded posts with metal rings attached to them.
"Why are we here?" Debbie asked. Her stomach was starting to churn.
"Because you shook my left hand," the Amazon said. She was grinning now. "That's the signal that you're a traitor!"
Before the dumbfounded reporter could utter either a denial or a confession, 2 more members of the group entered the room. They were cut from the same mold as the first; big, beautiful and strong. There was no chance that Debbie would be able to fight her way out.
"I'm leaving," she said, using her most assertive voice.
"Not yet, bitch," warned the redhead who had entered with the brunette. "We want to know who you are and who you work for."
"Well, you're not going to know anything!" Debbie said. Her mouth was very dry.
"You'll tell us," promised the blonde. "We have ways to ..."
"To hell with you ways!" Debbie blurted out. "My superiors know I'm here. If yo kill me, they'll catch you. If you beat me or burn me or tear my fingernails out, I'll go to the authorities and they'll close down your twisted Tuppeware party here. This is no movie we're in, you know."
"You're absolutely right," admitted the redhead. She had the smile of a beauty queen turned evil. "But you'll still tell us everything we want to know."
Two of them grabbed Debbie's arms while the other went through her purse. They found the recorder but nothing else. She had left all of her ID at home.
After putting up a struggle, Debbie found herself nude and forced to the floor with her bare back against a square wooded support beam. Debbie was surprised when they put a pillow down to=7F protect her ass from the cold cement floor.
A roll of strong white cord was brought over from a storage closet behind her. They lifted her arms up as high as they could go on the beam and tied Debbie's wrists there.
Four loops were used around each wrist. Even if she had been Wonder Woman, Debbie doubted if she would have been able to move her arms an inch. Her mind touched on what possible tortures they might have planned, but left that subject quickly.
Three more loops of rope bound her slender legs just below the knees. The women then pressed the helpless reporter thighs up against her breasts and lifted her ankles up level with her face. A round wooden post was set in the floor in front of her and Debbie's feet rested on 2 pegs extending from it like a cross. Four more loops of the unbreakable rope held her ankles fast to the pegs.
"Change your mind yet, Sugar?" the redhead asked. She was obviously the chief interrogator and took an obscene pleasure in having a bound beauty at her disposal.
They wouldn't dare do anything to me, Debbie told herself. This is just to scare me into talking.
"OK, have it your way," the redhead purred. "Excuse us while we get our tools."
No matter how she turned her head, Debbie couldn't see behind her. What are they getting from that close, she wondered frantically. Whips? Torches? Knives?
The threesome loved the suspense they had her in. They crept up slowly behind her. Debbie could hear them breathing. Just as the reporter was about to go crazy with anticipation, a hand came into her field of vision from either side. One held a long blue feather. The other held a feather duster.
Debbie's mouth dropped open in horror. Her breathing stopped. The realization of exactly what kind of torture was in store for her triggered a long forgotten memory of such a torture she had endured at the hands of the neighborhood bully.
The redheaded vixen strolled around in front of Debbie, stroking a red feather across her own neck. "See if you can convince her to tell us who she works for, girls," she ordered.
Both feathers floated up to touch Debbie's bound wrists. They traced a lazy course down her forearms, swirling around and around until reaching her hairless underarm. Then they danced up and down in the ticklish hollows.
Debbie went through the whole catalog of reactions. She jerked her arms, closed her eyes, bit her lip, and shook her head. The tickling didn't stop.
"Noooooooooo! HahahahahahahahGodplease! Stop it! STOP IT!!!"
Guided by her unseen tormentors, the feathers continued to scrape softly across Debbie's sensitive skin. The delicate area of the underside of her breasts was stroked mercilessly. Her nipples were erect and signaling for attention but the feathers ignored her need for release of the growing sexual tension.
After what seemed like hours of torture (but was really only a few minutes), Debbie screamed, "HahahahahaIworkhahahahahforhahah!! For for... Times-Leader!"
The redhead put up her hand and the tickling stopped. "Now we're getting somewhere. A reporter, huh? What's your name?"
"Erma Bombeck," Debbie said, gasping for air.
Her tormentor was amused. "I'm honored. Well, since you like to write such rib-tickling columns, Ms. Bombeck, perhaps you'd like to try the Real Thing!"
Four hands poked into Debbie's sides. She exploded into instant hysteria.
"Stophahahahahahhahkillingmehahahahahahahnomorenomorehaha!"
The more she screamed, the worse the rib-tickling got. They wouldn't even stop long enough to let her confess. Finally, one pair of relentless hands jostled her sides while the other pair danced like spider's legs across her silken underarms.
After five minutes the ordeal ended. Debbie's brown hair was plastered to her head with sweat. Her wrists and ankles were sore from vain attempts to struggle free.
"My . . . name . . . . is Debbie Conklin," the weary reporter gasped as soon as she was able. She couldn't believe that they had broken her so easily.
"Debbie Conklin. The cult series bitch," the redhead sneered. "Think you'll still write about us?"
"Never," Debbie lied. "Not a word as long as I live."
"Fine," the redhead said. "Now tell us who tipped you to that handshake so we can deal with her."
"I don't know who she was."
"A good description will do."
"We met in a dark motel room, I didn't get a good look at her," the nude beauty explained.
The evil looking redhead twirled the feather between her palms, "That room had better get lighter in your memory real fast. Don't make us start in on these pretty little bare soles here."
"No!" Debbie moaned. "Not my feet! I couldn't . . . I mean it wouldn't do any good. I can't tell you anything else!"
"What do you say we have Regina try to change her mind, girls?" the redhead suggested. The other two nodded eagerly.
"She seems pretty ticklish," the blonde said as she left the room. "We'll have to watch it that Regina doesn't tickle her to death."
"Who's Regina?" Debbie nervously inquired.
"Oh, just our foot-tickling expert," one of the women said. "Very effective and completely without mercy."
"She doesn't like her victims wiggling their feet, though," the redhead said. With a piece of thin cord, she tied Debbie's big toes together and attached them to the post. Her ticklish feet were now totally immobile.
"Please don't tie my toes," Debbie pleaded. "Please! At least let me move my feet around. I'll go nuts if I can't move at all!"
Her three torturers smiled at her request. "You just might do that by the time Regina gets though with you," the redhead smirked.
Debbie's terror multiplied when the blonde returned with Regina. Her torturer was . . . a large female leopard!
"What . . .???"
"Regina has quite a sweet tooth," the brunette said. She set a pot of honey on top of the post Debbie's' feet were tied to. With a brush, she started coating the barefoot reporter's soles with the sticky honey.
The effect of the brush on her soles tickled Debbie so much she could hardly bear it. She was determined not to give in and fought hard to suppress her laughter, but it was hopeless.
Her captors giggled at the sight of Debbie's predicament.
"Get the full picture yet?" the redhead purred. She picked up her feather and used it to tease the underside of Debbie thighs. "Regina has a very big tongue. It's all soft and wet and raspy, too."
Debbie's face became a mask of horror. "I can't tell you anything. Please don't do this to me!!"
"We'll soon know if you're lying. Nobody as ticklish as you could stand that tongue on her tootsies for long."
Before she could make up any more of a description of the informant, the big cat pulled free from the blonde's grip. Her long tongue flicked out to lick the sweet honey off Debbie's left sole.
Hysteria was the instant reaction. Debbie couldn't even control her mouth to plead for mercy. The sensations took over her entire body and brain.
Regina licked away calmly, totally unaffected by the hysterical laughter coming from Debbie. Tears were soon streaming from her eyes as the tickling sensations overwhelmed her. She would have confessed to *anything* to make that tongue quit sliding up and down her delicate arches, but there was no way for her to stop laughing long enough to speak.
The three inquisitors were still not happy with the reaction.
"She doesn't have anything to tell us," the redhead said, "but I want to make sure she remembers her visit here."
Her brunette companion dripped more honey on Debbie's wildly flexing toes. Regina's devilish tongue was soon licking away at the ultra-sensitive skin there. The blonde hurried behind their squirming captive to play her ribs like piano keys. Finally, the leader of the torture team put her feather to work on the edges of Debbie's ****. She made sure to avoid touching her clit so the unrelieved sexual tension was soon driving their captive almost as crazy as the tickling was.
The abused reporter was about to slip into merciful unconsciousness when the police broke down the door to the torture chamber. When Debbie's informant had learned of her capture the frightened woman had escaped and called the authorities.
Debbie was soon untied and dressed. The officers were about to lead her sullen torturers away when she made a suggestion.
"Why don't you fellows do a really thorough search of the rest of the compound to look for drugs or something?"
"Not a bad idea," one of the young cops agreed. "But who'd watch our prisoners?"
"Oh, I can do that. Just tie them to those poles . . . and put their feet up on those pegs. Regina and I will keep an eye and maybe a tongue on them."
The two officers smiled and bound the struggling women in place. All three were screaming about police brutality.
"Take you time, guys," Debbie said as the pair left. "Maybe an hour or two. Us girls will just wait here and have a few laughs."
