tenderfeet
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2001
- Messages
- 196
- Points
- 0
(from the Tickling Universe, author unknown)
Gang Tickle Trauma
You find yourself hung, arms suspended, your wrists chained to the cold, cold iron bar above you, your ankles shackled to the floor below......your stripped naked body glistens with the sewat of fear as you struggle uselessly. The black cloak of the blindfold imprisons you in a pit of darkenss, and your pitiful pleas are muffled by the gag that fills your sweet panting mouth.
Then you hear my footsteps, my obscene laugh as I enter the room.....the smell of your terror intoxicates me as I circle your trapped nude body, slowly, stepping close enough to blow my hot breath down your trembling neck.
I chuckle softly as you whimper and beg.....there is so much I can do to a helpless naked female, where do I begin? I want to tease a little at first, so I step behind your bare pinioned form, watching you shiver with cold panic. I cup your lovely breasts in my hands, delicately running my fingertips over your mountains of soft flesh, playing seductively over your sensitive nipples.
I can't resist the urge to lick you, and my tongue darts out to your nipples with calculated, seductive strokes, circling the hardening buds with slow, maddening intensity. In the midst of your consuming fear, you become aroused; I can feel it; I can smell it.
You pant through the gag in a crazed mixture of stark terror and sexual delight. Your trapped mind races with the barrage of sensations as I step away from you for what seems like an eternity.
Then you hear a table being wheeled in, and your body stiffens as a moan of despair escapes your gagged mouth. I play with the instruments on the table, lovingly stroking the fronds of the feather, the stiff bristles of the brush, the smooth tip of the vibrator......which one? which one?
I approach you, firm quill in hand, my cock stiffening as I grow nearer to you, watching you twist helplessly in your desparation to ward me off. I place your swollen nipples in powerful clamps that pinch you deliciously, then I tease your nipples tnederly with the edge of the plume, watching them grow yet harder in the midst of your fear and degradation. Then the stroke grows less gentle; they begin to rub, then to itch, taunting the silken flesh of your breasts with maddening accuracy, just enough to make you wince.
You groan through the gag. My hand reaches between your thighs and I find you wet; a most welcome surprise. I toy with your aching clit for several agonizing minutes, then I invade you, rubbing your tight soaked pussy as you struggle to wrench free, but can't.
I step away, granting you a brief moment of my mercy. You sob and plead, but it just makes my cock ache for you all the more.
I reach for another of my favorite toys, then I lean forward and whisper to you the question that I've been dying to ask, and in reply you lunge forward, tugging madly at your shackles in desparate horror, your head shaking in futile protest, but you're not going anywhere.....because the question I've asked you is,
"ARE YOU TICKLISH???"
*********************************************************************
As the words scream in your brain, you shudder at the images branded upon your subconscious, those seemingly innocent words, "Are you ticklish?", spoken with sinister glee by a tormentor so many years ago, the young boy from next door who tortured you explosive howls of laughing, begging agony from you as a child, jumping at every opportunity to drive you to the edge of insanity with sadistic, calulated strokes and jabs. He would pounce on you when you least expected it, usually when you were walking home from school, or in the playground, or the woods behind your house.
He was older and so much stornger, and when he tackled you to the ground and pinned you with his wrestling holds, you knew there was absolutely no escape. Yet still, you would writhe and twist and fight, because you knew full well the maddening ordeal that awaited you. But it was no use; you were trapped, and when he would utter those cruel, taunting words -- "Are you ticklish?" -- to you, his evil grinning face pressed close to yours, your mind would nearly snap with the anticiaption of the hell to come.
As a tickler, he was completely devoid of mercy. In his skilled hands, you were reduced to tears of helpless hilarity, over and over again, while he laughed gutturally at your pitiful pleas and useless sturggles. You'd kick, you'd howl, you'd beg, you'd holler and cry and laugh until your sides nearly split, and yet it'd go on and on while your panicked nerve endings screamed with heightened sensitivity, your mind careening wildly into new depths of torment.
You remember the worst though, the absolutely undeniable worst, the time he and his two bullying playmates surrounded you in the wooded area behind your neighborhood, lengths of thick coiled rope clenched in their hands. They carried you kicking and screeching to their clubhouse, and there you were tied to an old reclining chair, your wirsts bound tightly over your head, your ankles fastened to the footrest, your defenceless body stretched tuat as if on a rack. They teased and laughed as they wrapped lengths of rope around your legs and torso, restircting your movements so that the only motions you could manage were in your face, fingers, and toes.
Then they went to work on you with devilish abandon. Your torturer sat back and watched gleefully as his buddies positioned themselves on either side of you, their wriggling fingers making their way toward your ribcage as you babbled for some semblance of mercy.
"Oh God, nonono, pleeeeeese don't...."
When their tickling digits hit their mark, you bucked uselessly in your bonds, trying desprately to bite bck your laughter, but the giggles came in a torrent, consuming you uncontrollabley, then escalating to belly-wracking guffaws as their fingertips found their stride, seeking out and exploiting the most tender spots between your ribs.....the lower ribs were unbearable, and you felt like you would die laughing.
Their poking fingers expored your ribs with murderous accuracy, then searched upward to the helpless hollows of your armpits, digging and scratching at the smooth, vulnerable nooks of your underarms as your ticklish laughter boomed and shrieked and rang throughout the clubhouse that had become your torture chamber.
You remember what happened next, your arch-villain of tickling rising from his chair to join his pals, leaning close to your crimson lauging face and cooing, "Oooooooh, so you're still ticklish, huh?" He glanced downward, smiling sadistically, and exclaimed, "Guess I should tell you I've got dibs on your feet!"
That's when you really started to lose it. The feet were always unednurable for you even under the best of circumstances, and this was certainly the worst of circumstances. At least before this, you were always able to wrad off a tickling assault to some degree by kicking and squirming, but this was hopless for you. Your ticklish body was immobilized, and it was clear form the looks on your tormentors' faces that this would taken advantage of to ever possible extreme, at the possible cost of your sanity.
As the unmerciful attack on your ribs and armpits continued, you watched in sheer horro as your sneakers were removed from your feet, leaving them bare and sensitive and excrutiatingly vulnerable to a tickling assault. He started in on you then, using his fingernails to draw invisible designs on the soft pale soles of your feet, gliding and dancing like a mad spider over your smooth pink arches, slwoly, gently at first, then scampering crazily across the ticklish skin, scratching and raking your tender naked feet with a tactile skill that made your soles twitch and your toes squirm with spasms of itching intensity.
You laughed till it hurt, the tears of hsterical forced mirth rolling down your flushed cheeks in a torrent. Your face was a contorted mask of maniacal merriment, your eyes squeeaing out tears as you hollered your ticklish pain to the world, then bugging open whenever one of them hit a particulalry sensitive spot. Your masterful foot tickler was driving you out of your mind as other probing fingers groped and poked and stabbed and scratched at your ribs and underarms, along the sides of your neck, often on both sides at once so that there truly no escape for you.
God, if you could only have gotten loose, you would have killed them all in a vengeful surge of adrenlin; these brats didn't care how much you suffered, laughing at your frustration and mocking your hellish ticklish torment.
Then it was worse, much, much worse. You thought at first it was over when the three of them actually let up on you long enough for you to catch your breath, and you began to gasp in relief. But then you saw the endless line of kids at the door of the clubhouse, and you saw your villainous tickler handing out feathers to each of them as they queued up at the doorway, and the makeshift sign hung above the door, staing in huge letters:
"CHINESE TICKLE-TORTURE ROOM: Help Torture Our Captured Spy, 50 cents charge."
You shook your head in disbelief. "God, this can't be happening!" But when the first barrage of tickles came, you realized it was all too real.
Your tormentors came at you in droves, surrounding you, their fingers exploring your paralyzed body with fiendish delight, dsicovering your most painfully ticklish spots and exploiting those spots with evil joy. It went on for hours, hours that seemed like years.
At one point you had as many as seven ticklers on you at once; there were dozens of jabbing, jiggling fingers placed in strategic locations along your ribcage, massaging and kneading your tender ribs until you were sore. The endless forced laughter exploded from you as your ribs were manipulated unmercifully. then there were additional fingers scooping into your armpits, pinching your neck and collar bone, squeezing the tops of your knees, clutching at the hollows behind your knees, behind your earlobes. They tickled you ferociously while you blubbered and guffawed with tearful laugher. One boy pulled your blouse up to expose your belly and inserted his tongue into your navel, probing and licking and rolling his tongue in slow lazy circles.
And the whole time, he was there, the fiend who started all this, directing, coordinating, pointing out your most excrutiatingly ticklish spots to his troop of followers. At the point where the seven pairs of hands doing their demonic work on you, he joined in with a cheerful, "Hey!! I've still got dibs on the feet!!!!", and set upon your bare soles and toes like a hungry animal. He used a stiff feather to slither up and down the bottom of your left foot, caressing the silky-soft arch and slithering the fronds of the plume through the creases and folds of your twitching wrinkled sole; at the same time, the devilish digits of his other hand scraped at the sole of your right foot in fast, furious motions. He alternated, switching storkes between your feet, then instructed other ticklers to slip feathers between your wriggling toes, tormenting the soft crevices with slow, calculated strokes that sent spasms of ticklish sensation up the length of your helpless body to erupt from your wildly grinning mouth in a cacophony of gut-busting hysterics.
"Hey, guys!! Let's paint her feet!!!" he announced.
The wispy paintbrushes were applied to your soles and toes, wiping water-colors in swirling mad designs over the soft pink-white flesh. Grafitti was inscribed on your arches, ticklish ripples were painted around the balls of your feet, the artwork of a host of fienish fingers was splashed over the unwilling canvas of your poor bare feet.
"Hey!!!! She's wiggling her toes too much!!!"
With that, he used a shoelace to halt the wiggling, and as the tickling continued unabated, your big toes pulsated painfully from the tightness of the cord that had them bound together. The tips of the paintbrushes found their way into your toe spaces and began to paint stripes and bands around and around your throbbing big toes. Your lunatic laughter reached a cackling crescendo, reverberating off the walls of the clubhouse with the sound of a madwoman in a rubber room. Tears cascaded down your reddened cheeks like a busted water amin, dribbling into your tickled ears. Your bladder began to ache with a desparate need for relief, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't help it....you just couldn't hold it any longer.....
Then strangely, almost miraculously, in the midst of your ticklish anguish and utter humiliation, a mind-nimbing thought suddenly occurred to you:
"Oh my God.....I LET this happen. I WANTED this to happen. I've ALWAYS wanted this to happen......why else do I always places place myself in his clutches? Always arranging to be in secluded places, like the woods, where I know he'll be.....waiting for me??"
*********************************************************************\
Your terror-stricken mind returns to the present, where you hang suspended before me, awaiting the torture that I fully intend to inflict. As your childhood ordeal haunts your horrified psyche, I, your unknown abductor, ask that nagging question once again, and the realization rips into your brain like a bolt of lightning. I can tell what you're thinking. I see the glimmer of recognition on your sweet face, the one I've known since childhood, because it's not just the question that's familiar, it's the voice, now an adult voice, deeper and more menacing than when I was a child, but my voice all the same:
"ARE YOU TICKLISH?"
Gang Tickle Trauma
You find yourself hung, arms suspended, your wrists chained to the cold, cold iron bar above you, your ankles shackled to the floor below......your stripped naked body glistens with the sewat of fear as you struggle uselessly. The black cloak of the blindfold imprisons you in a pit of darkenss, and your pitiful pleas are muffled by the gag that fills your sweet panting mouth.
Then you hear my footsteps, my obscene laugh as I enter the room.....the smell of your terror intoxicates me as I circle your trapped nude body, slowly, stepping close enough to blow my hot breath down your trembling neck.
I chuckle softly as you whimper and beg.....there is so much I can do to a helpless naked female, where do I begin? I want to tease a little at first, so I step behind your bare pinioned form, watching you shiver with cold panic. I cup your lovely breasts in my hands, delicately running my fingertips over your mountains of soft flesh, playing seductively over your sensitive nipples.
I can't resist the urge to lick you, and my tongue darts out to your nipples with calculated, seductive strokes, circling the hardening buds with slow, maddening intensity. In the midst of your consuming fear, you become aroused; I can feel it; I can smell it.
You pant through the gag in a crazed mixture of stark terror and sexual delight. Your trapped mind races with the barrage of sensations as I step away from you for what seems like an eternity.
Then you hear a table being wheeled in, and your body stiffens as a moan of despair escapes your gagged mouth. I play with the instruments on the table, lovingly stroking the fronds of the feather, the stiff bristles of the brush, the smooth tip of the vibrator......which one? which one?
I approach you, firm quill in hand, my cock stiffening as I grow nearer to you, watching you twist helplessly in your desparation to ward me off. I place your swollen nipples in powerful clamps that pinch you deliciously, then I tease your nipples tnederly with the edge of the plume, watching them grow yet harder in the midst of your fear and degradation. Then the stroke grows less gentle; they begin to rub, then to itch, taunting the silken flesh of your breasts with maddening accuracy, just enough to make you wince.
You groan through the gag. My hand reaches between your thighs and I find you wet; a most welcome surprise. I toy with your aching clit for several agonizing minutes, then I invade you, rubbing your tight soaked pussy as you struggle to wrench free, but can't.
I step away, granting you a brief moment of my mercy. You sob and plead, but it just makes my cock ache for you all the more.
I reach for another of my favorite toys, then I lean forward and whisper to you the question that I've been dying to ask, and in reply you lunge forward, tugging madly at your shackles in desparate horror, your head shaking in futile protest, but you're not going anywhere.....because the question I've asked you is,
"ARE YOU TICKLISH???"
*********************************************************************
As the words scream in your brain, you shudder at the images branded upon your subconscious, those seemingly innocent words, "Are you ticklish?", spoken with sinister glee by a tormentor so many years ago, the young boy from next door who tortured you explosive howls of laughing, begging agony from you as a child, jumping at every opportunity to drive you to the edge of insanity with sadistic, calulated strokes and jabs. He would pounce on you when you least expected it, usually when you were walking home from school, or in the playground, or the woods behind your house.
He was older and so much stornger, and when he tackled you to the ground and pinned you with his wrestling holds, you knew there was absolutely no escape. Yet still, you would writhe and twist and fight, because you knew full well the maddening ordeal that awaited you. But it was no use; you were trapped, and when he would utter those cruel, taunting words -- "Are you ticklish?" -- to you, his evil grinning face pressed close to yours, your mind would nearly snap with the anticiaption of the hell to come.
As a tickler, he was completely devoid of mercy. In his skilled hands, you were reduced to tears of helpless hilarity, over and over again, while he laughed gutturally at your pitiful pleas and useless sturggles. You'd kick, you'd howl, you'd beg, you'd holler and cry and laugh until your sides nearly split, and yet it'd go on and on while your panicked nerve endings screamed with heightened sensitivity, your mind careening wildly into new depths of torment.
You remember the worst though, the absolutely undeniable worst, the time he and his two bullying playmates surrounded you in the wooded area behind your neighborhood, lengths of thick coiled rope clenched in their hands. They carried you kicking and screeching to their clubhouse, and there you were tied to an old reclining chair, your wirsts bound tightly over your head, your ankles fastened to the footrest, your defenceless body stretched tuat as if on a rack. They teased and laughed as they wrapped lengths of rope around your legs and torso, restircting your movements so that the only motions you could manage were in your face, fingers, and toes.
Then they went to work on you with devilish abandon. Your torturer sat back and watched gleefully as his buddies positioned themselves on either side of you, their wriggling fingers making their way toward your ribcage as you babbled for some semblance of mercy.
"Oh God, nonono, pleeeeeese don't...."
When their tickling digits hit their mark, you bucked uselessly in your bonds, trying desprately to bite bck your laughter, but the giggles came in a torrent, consuming you uncontrollabley, then escalating to belly-wracking guffaws as their fingertips found their stride, seeking out and exploiting the most tender spots between your ribs.....the lower ribs were unbearable, and you felt like you would die laughing.
Their poking fingers expored your ribs with murderous accuracy, then searched upward to the helpless hollows of your armpits, digging and scratching at the smooth, vulnerable nooks of your underarms as your ticklish laughter boomed and shrieked and rang throughout the clubhouse that had become your torture chamber.
You remember what happened next, your arch-villain of tickling rising from his chair to join his pals, leaning close to your crimson lauging face and cooing, "Oooooooh, so you're still ticklish, huh?" He glanced downward, smiling sadistically, and exclaimed, "Guess I should tell you I've got dibs on your feet!"
That's when you really started to lose it. The feet were always unednurable for you even under the best of circumstances, and this was certainly the worst of circumstances. At least before this, you were always able to wrad off a tickling assault to some degree by kicking and squirming, but this was hopless for you. Your ticklish body was immobilized, and it was clear form the looks on your tormentors' faces that this would taken advantage of to ever possible extreme, at the possible cost of your sanity.
As the unmerciful attack on your ribs and armpits continued, you watched in sheer horro as your sneakers were removed from your feet, leaving them bare and sensitive and excrutiatingly vulnerable to a tickling assault. He started in on you then, using his fingernails to draw invisible designs on the soft pale soles of your feet, gliding and dancing like a mad spider over your smooth pink arches, slwoly, gently at first, then scampering crazily across the ticklish skin, scratching and raking your tender naked feet with a tactile skill that made your soles twitch and your toes squirm with spasms of itching intensity.
You laughed till it hurt, the tears of hsterical forced mirth rolling down your flushed cheeks in a torrent. Your face was a contorted mask of maniacal merriment, your eyes squeeaing out tears as you hollered your ticklish pain to the world, then bugging open whenever one of them hit a particulalry sensitive spot. Your masterful foot tickler was driving you out of your mind as other probing fingers groped and poked and stabbed and scratched at your ribs and underarms, along the sides of your neck, often on both sides at once so that there truly no escape for you.
God, if you could only have gotten loose, you would have killed them all in a vengeful surge of adrenlin; these brats didn't care how much you suffered, laughing at your frustration and mocking your hellish ticklish torment.
Then it was worse, much, much worse. You thought at first it was over when the three of them actually let up on you long enough for you to catch your breath, and you began to gasp in relief. But then you saw the endless line of kids at the door of the clubhouse, and you saw your villainous tickler handing out feathers to each of them as they queued up at the doorway, and the makeshift sign hung above the door, staing in huge letters:
"CHINESE TICKLE-TORTURE ROOM: Help Torture Our Captured Spy, 50 cents charge."
You shook your head in disbelief. "God, this can't be happening!" But when the first barrage of tickles came, you realized it was all too real.
Your tormentors came at you in droves, surrounding you, their fingers exploring your paralyzed body with fiendish delight, dsicovering your most painfully ticklish spots and exploiting those spots with evil joy. It went on for hours, hours that seemed like years.
At one point you had as many as seven ticklers on you at once; there were dozens of jabbing, jiggling fingers placed in strategic locations along your ribcage, massaging and kneading your tender ribs until you were sore. The endless forced laughter exploded from you as your ribs were manipulated unmercifully. then there were additional fingers scooping into your armpits, pinching your neck and collar bone, squeezing the tops of your knees, clutching at the hollows behind your knees, behind your earlobes. They tickled you ferociously while you blubbered and guffawed with tearful laugher. One boy pulled your blouse up to expose your belly and inserted his tongue into your navel, probing and licking and rolling his tongue in slow lazy circles.
And the whole time, he was there, the fiend who started all this, directing, coordinating, pointing out your most excrutiatingly ticklish spots to his troop of followers. At the point where the seven pairs of hands doing their demonic work on you, he joined in with a cheerful, "Hey!! I've still got dibs on the feet!!!!", and set upon your bare soles and toes like a hungry animal. He used a stiff feather to slither up and down the bottom of your left foot, caressing the silky-soft arch and slithering the fronds of the plume through the creases and folds of your twitching wrinkled sole; at the same time, the devilish digits of his other hand scraped at the sole of your right foot in fast, furious motions. He alternated, switching storkes between your feet, then instructed other ticklers to slip feathers between your wriggling toes, tormenting the soft crevices with slow, calculated strokes that sent spasms of ticklish sensation up the length of your helpless body to erupt from your wildly grinning mouth in a cacophony of gut-busting hysterics.
"Hey, guys!! Let's paint her feet!!!" he announced.
The wispy paintbrushes were applied to your soles and toes, wiping water-colors in swirling mad designs over the soft pink-white flesh. Grafitti was inscribed on your arches, ticklish ripples were painted around the balls of your feet, the artwork of a host of fienish fingers was splashed over the unwilling canvas of your poor bare feet.
"Hey!!!! She's wiggling her toes too much!!!"
With that, he used a shoelace to halt the wiggling, and as the tickling continued unabated, your big toes pulsated painfully from the tightness of the cord that had them bound together. The tips of the paintbrushes found their way into your toe spaces and began to paint stripes and bands around and around your throbbing big toes. Your lunatic laughter reached a cackling crescendo, reverberating off the walls of the clubhouse with the sound of a madwoman in a rubber room. Tears cascaded down your reddened cheeks like a busted water amin, dribbling into your tickled ears. Your bladder began to ache with a desparate need for relief, and despite your best efforts, you couldn't help it....you just couldn't hold it any longer.....
Then strangely, almost miraculously, in the midst of your ticklish anguish and utter humiliation, a mind-nimbing thought suddenly occurred to you:
"Oh my God.....I LET this happen. I WANTED this to happen. I've ALWAYS wanted this to happen......why else do I always places place myself in his clutches? Always arranging to be in secluded places, like the woods, where I know he'll be.....waiting for me??"
*********************************************************************\
Your terror-stricken mind returns to the present, where you hang suspended before me, awaiting the torture that I fully intend to inflict. As your childhood ordeal haunts your horrified psyche, I, your unknown abductor, ask that nagging question once again, and the realization rips into your brain like a bolt of lightning. I can tell what you're thinking. I see the glimmer of recognition on your sweet face, the one I've known since childhood, because it's not just the question that's familiar, it's the voice, now an adult voice, deeper and more menacing than when I was a child, but my voice all the same:
"ARE YOU TICKLISH?"
