"Please, she's only a child," pleaded Janet.
Janet was feeling like a mother. Maybe she was one. Hell, how old was this woman? Forty at the least? Probably older. Hard to tell. Yes, she was still so beautiful, but not in the same way as Jeannie, the young lady Janet was now trying to protect, even as she sat bound tightly on the rickety table, even in excrutiating pain from the tight ropes. Janet begged, in spite of being in little position to beg, that Jeannie be spared the same barbaric treatment she had received.
Maybe that was all Janet could could imagine -- a daughter of her own, near to the age of Jeannie and Rachel, her daughter hogtied and gagged, barefoot and stripped naked and facing a hideous torture at the hands of a man who, only a few hours earlier she had never seen in her life.
"Only a child," those words hit Rachel like a wrecking ball. She wasn't hardly any child these days, and she NEVER thought of Jeannie as a little girl. Even when they were in grade school Jeannie always carried herself like a grown woman. Proud, dignified, bold and yet realistic, those were the impressions people, even the other kids, had of Jeannie. At least they were Rachel's impressions of Jeannie. Tickle her feet? No one would dare. No one would dare do it to Jeannie's friends, either. Rachel recalled the autumn day some eight years ago, when she tried to get to the center of town via a shortcut through old man Crocker's yard. She remebered how her bare toes caught a root, an exposed root, making her fall to the ground with a yelp. Pain. A seat on the grass as she rubbed her twisted ankle. The three boys, boys she had known in school before their wealthy parents decided to ship them off to a parochial boarding school inland. Jeff, Michael and Eddie. Punks who could, as the song goes, "rely on the old man's money." Feigning sympathy for Rachel. Offering to rub her ankle. Trying to rub it anyway after Rachel had declined their fatuous offer. Grabbing Rachel's arms and legs and pinning her back to the cool grass of Crocker's backyard. Jeff holding her wrists to the ground. Eddie sitting on her knees. Michael tickling the bottoms of the 11-year-old girl's shoeless feet, mocking her for her dirty soles, the product of a whole barefoot summer in a laid-back village. Five, 10 and 15 minutes of tickling, Rachel laughing, sobbing, begging for mercy. Old man Crocker coming to the back door to threaten to call the police if "you brats don't get the hell out of my yard." Rachel meeting Jeannie downtown, in a state, in no mood to shop with her dearest friend.
The next day, Jeannie walking up to Michael and blackening his right eye.
So now here was Jeannie. Suddenly, maybe for the first time in her life, helpless. Janet, the matronly torture victim, herself strictly bound and in barely tolerable agony, trying to save through words a teenager in whom Janet saw perhaps her own progeny.
"Don't tickle her, please!" Janet cried.
"Will you talk if I spare this girl?" curly hair asked.
Before Janet could answer, Jeannie shook her head violently, virtually the only movement she could make in light of her constricting hogtie. She did not try to yell through the gag, but the look in her eyes said Jeannie wanted her to give this louse nothing.
"No! I won't talk. I'll never talk. We'll all outlast you, you son of a bitch!!!!"
Curly hair's index fingers lightly touched the tips of Jeannie's long, slender toes. It wasn't like what he had done to Rachel. He went right to the hard stuff with that girl, lightning-quick spider tickles all over Rachel's bare soles. With Jeannie, he was going to tease. Slowly, gently, the tips of his fingers glided along the tips of Jeannie's toes. Jeannie jerked her feet, but made no noise. Very, very slowly curly hair's fingers began stroking the beige soles of Jeannie's feet. Soft giggles audible through the gag. Head shaking, feet and toes in spastic twitching, upper body vibrating like a 20-year-old washing machine. Louder the stifled laughter became as curly hair's increased the speed over which his fingers tickled the poor girl's naked feet and wiggling toes.
Janet and Rachel said nothing. Rachel couldn't watch. She put herself on her side, both to avoid looking at her friend being tortured and to give her large breasts some relief from being squeezed between her bound body and the canvas cot. Janet watched. Tears she didn't think she had at this late point in her ordeal streamed down her cheeks and onto her chest. They felt cold against her bare flesh. She bowed her head, making the tears fall directly on her dark brown tits.
Curly tickled both feet simultaneously. With Jeannie's ankles crossed, there was no way she could protect the most ticklish part of her body from him.
Curly hair stopped only long enough to retrieve his feather, and commence working over Jeannie's delicate soles and vulnerable toes. Jeannie writhed in agony, squirming as best she could, bellowing laughter through the gag. How long would this go on? Would she lose her mind? Please, someone MAKE HIM STOP!!! The feather was too much to bear. It's sharp tip feeling like a knife slicing up the folds between her toes, cutting trenches across the bottoms of her feet. She would black out soon, she just knew she would. Oh, God, STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!!
Jeannie didn't even feel it when curly hair finally stopped. She was an unholy mess. She breathed deep gasps made all the harder with the gag stuffed in her mouth. Slowly, she began to come down, all the while wondering if this was simply a break in the action before more torture resumed. Sweat soaked her body. Her feet felt chilled. She couldn't feel her fingers at all. Curly hair knelt down to Jeannie's face, brushed the disheveled hair from her eyes and, finally, removed her gag.
"Kkkkkccccchhhhhhgggggg," Jeannie spit out. "Uhhhhhhhhkkkkkkkkk. Ychhhh. Please, please don't tickle my feet. Not my feet, please, don't tickle me again please."
Curly hair said nothing. He played with Jeannie's dark, unkempt hair and gave her a little tickle in her right ear. She pulled her head away.
"Please, I'll do anything you want. You want to have sex with me? I'll let you. I will. Anything..."
Curly hair let out a hearty laugh, the kind of laugh straight from the depths of one's innards. A rich, satisfied laugh. A blustering laugh. A laugh that signaled victory. When the laughter finally stopped, curly snarled at Jeannie.
"I'm so glad to know you think I'm stupid," he said between clenched teeth as he pinched hard Jeannie's chubby cheek with his thumb and index finger. She let loose an "oww-wow" as curly twisted the soft flesh on her reddened face.
"To have sex with you I'd have to untie you. DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I AM GOING TO DO THAT?"
Curly hair stood up, incensed over the idea that Jeannie would use a promise of sex to plan an escape.
"Tell you what, though. I will do something that might be better than sex, if it gets Janet here to drop her tough international spygirl act and give up the info I need."
Oh my God, all three females thought. What devious torture does this maniac have planned...and for whom? Curly hair went to Rachel. He untied her feet. Rachel's legs fell to the cot, too stiff and sore to move. She felt the blood coming back to her feet and toes in that unmistakable pins-and-needles feeling. The rope burns around her ankles were deep. The skin was a frightening black and blue. Rachel lay face down on the cot, her hands still bound behind her. Curly hair went to the window and called for half-breed, careful not to call him by name (if he even had one, thought the women).
"What up?" said half-breed, his pistol down by his side, his eyes staring at Rachel's bare bottom as she lay prone, too weak to move.
"I need your help, man," curly hair explained. He bent down and took hold of Rachel's left arm, forcefully but carefully lifting her to her feet, her hands still tied behind her back.
"This little honey with the dishrag on her dome thinks she's seen the worst. I have a little something else that she won't much appreciate."
Rachel's heart began to race.
Janet was feeling like a mother. Maybe she was one. Hell, how old was this woman? Forty at the least? Probably older. Hard to tell. Yes, she was still so beautiful, but not in the same way as Jeannie, the young lady Janet was now trying to protect, even as she sat bound tightly on the rickety table, even in excrutiating pain from the tight ropes. Janet begged, in spite of being in little position to beg, that Jeannie be spared the same barbaric treatment she had received.
Maybe that was all Janet could could imagine -- a daughter of her own, near to the age of Jeannie and Rachel, her daughter hogtied and gagged, barefoot and stripped naked and facing a hideous torture at the hands of a man who, only a few hours earlier she had never seen in her life.
"Only a child," those words hit Rachel like a wrecking ball. She wasn't hardly any child these days, and she NEVER thought of Jeannie as a little girl. Even when they were in grade school Jeannie always carried herself like a grown woman. Proud, dignified, bold and yet realistic, those were the impressions people, even the other kids, had of Jeannie. At least they were Rachel's impressions of Jeannie. Tickle her feet? No one would dare. No one would dare do it to Jeannie's friends, either. Rachel recalled the autumn day some eight years ago, when she tried to get to the center of town via a shortcut through old man Crocker's yard. She remebered how her bare toes caught a root, an exposed root, making her fall to the ground with a yelp. Pain. A seat on the grass as she rubbed her twisted ankle. The three boys, boys she had known in school before their wealthy parents decided to ship them off to a parochial boarding school inland. Jeff, Michael and Eddie. Punks who could, as the song goes, "rely on the old man's money." Feigning sympathy for Rachel. Offering to rub her ankle. Trying to rub it anyway after Rachel had declined their fatuous offer. Grabbing Rachel's arms and legs and pinning her back to the cool grass of Crocker's backyard. Jeff holding her wrists to the ground. Eddie sitting on her knees. Michael tickling the bottoms of the 11-year-old girl's shoeless feet, mocking her for her dirty soles, the product of a whole barefoot summer in a laid-back village. Five, 10 and 15 minutes of tickling, Rachel laughing, sobbing, begging for mercy. Old man Crocker coming to the back door to threaten to call the police if "you brats don't get the hell out of my yard." Rachel meeting Jeannie downtown, in a state, in no mood to shop with her dearest friend.
The next day, Jeannie walking up to Michael and blackening his right eye.
So now here was Jeannie. Suddenly, maybe for the first time in her life, helpless. Janet, the matronly torture victim, herself strictly bound and in barely tolerable agony, trying to save through words a teenager in whom Janet saw perhaps her own progeny.
"Don't tickle her, please!" Janet cried.
"Will you talk if I spare this girl?" curly hair asked.
Before Janet could answer, Jeannie shook her head violently, virtually the only movement she could make in light of her constricting hogtie. She did not try to yell through the gag, but the look in her eyes said Jeannie wanted her to give this louse nothing.
"No! I won't talk. I'll never talk. We'll all outlast you, you son of a bitch!!!!"
Curly hair's index fingers lightly touched the tips of Jeannie's long, slender toes. It wasn't like what he had done to Rachel. He went right to the hard stuff with that girl, lightning-quick spider tickles all over Rachel's bare soles. With Jeannie, he was going to tease. Slowly, gently, the tips of his fingers glided along the tips of Jeannie's toes. Jeannie jerked her feet, but made no noise. Very, very slowly curly hair's fingers began stroking the beige soles of Jeannie's feet. Soft giggles audible through the gag. Head shaking, feet and toes in spastic twitching, upper body vibrating like a 20-year-old washing machine. Louder the stifled laughter became as curly hair's increased the speed over which his fingers tickled the poor girl's naked feet and wiggling toes.
Janet and Rachel said nothing. Rachel couldn't watch. She put herself on her side, both to avoid looking at her friend being tortured and to give her large breasts some relief from being squeezed between her bound body and the canvas cot. Janet watched. Tears she didn't think she had at this late point in her ordeal streamed down her cheeks and onto her chest. They felt cold against her bare flesh. She bowed her head, making the tears fall directly on her dark brown tits.
Curly tickled both feet simultaneously. With Jeannie's ankles crossed, there was no way she could protect the most ticklish part of her body from him.
Curly hair stopped only long enough to retrieve his feather, and commence working over Jeannie's delicate soles and vulnerable toes. Jeannie writhed in agony, squirming as best she could, bellowing laughter through the gag. How long would this go on? Would she lose her mind? Please, someone MAKE HIM STOP!!! The feather was too much to bear. It's sharp tip feeling like a knife slicing up the folds between her toes, cutting trenches across the bottoms of her feet. She would black out soon, she just knew she would. Oh, God, STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!!
Jeannie didn't even feel it when curly hair finally stopped. She was an unholy mess. She breathed deep gasps made all the harder with the gag stuffed in her mouth. Slowly, she began to come down, all the while wondering if this was simply a break in the action before more torture resumed. Sweat soaked her body. Her feet felt chilled. She couldn't feel her fingers at all. Curly hair knelt down to Jeannie's face, brushed the disheveled hair from her eyes and, finally, removed her gag.
"Kkkkkccccchhhhhhgggggg," Jeannie spit out. "Uhhhhhhhhkkkkkkkkk. Ychhhh. Please, please don't tickle my feet. Not my feet, please, don't tickle me again please."
Curly hair said nothing. He played with Jeannie's dark, unkempt hair and gave her a little tickle in her right ear. She pulled her head away.
"Please, I'll do anything you want. You want to have sex with me? I'll let you. I will. Anything..."
Curly hair let out a hearty laugh, the kind of laugh straight from the depths of one's innards. A rich, satisfied laugh. A blustering laugh. A laugh that signaled victory. When the laughter finally stopped, curly snarled at Jeannie.
"I'm so glad to know you think I'm stupid," he said between clenched teeth as he pinched hard Jeannie's chubby cheek with his thumb and index finger. She let loose an "oww-wow" as curly twisted the soft flesh on her reddened face.
"To have sex with you I'd have to untie you. DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I AM GOING TO DO THAT?"
Curly hair stood up, incensed over the idea that Jeannie would use a promise of sex to plan an escape.
"Tell you what, though. I will do something that might be better than sex, if it gets Janet here to drop her tough international spygirl act and give up the info I need."
Oh my God, all three females thought. What devious torture does this maniac have planned...and for whom? Curly hair went to Rachel. He untied her feet. Rachel's legs fell to the cot, too stiff and sore to move. She felt the blood coming back to her feet and toes in that unmistakable pins-and-needles feeling. The rope burns around her ankles were deep. The skin was a frightening black and blue. Rachel lay face down on the cot, her hands still bound behind her. Curly hair went to the window and called for half-breed, careful not to call him by name (if he even had one, thought the women).
"What up?" said half-breed, his pistol down by his side, his eyes staring at Rachel's bare bottom as she lay prone, too weak to move.
"I need your help, man," curly hair explained. He bent down and took hold of Rachel's left arm, forcefully but carefully lifting her to her feet, her hands still tied behind her back.
"This little honey with the dishrag on her dome thinks she's seen the worst. I have a little something else that she won't much appreciate."
Rachel's heart began to race.
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