clean_kitchen
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Aug 14, 2002
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Our House (*/mff)
Part 1
I woke up this morning to find I couldn't move. The bedspread was wrapped tightly around me, arms pinned to my sides, my head sticking out from one end and my feet from the other.
"Oh, crap," I thought, bracing for what I knew was coming.
I braced myself as I felt the fingers begin to trace long paths up and down my soles, and I quickly dissolved into a steady stream of laughter. I moved my feet, trying to escape the tickling, but the fingers matched every move. I tried to use one foot to brush the finger off the other foot, but there was nothing to brush away. The fingers just kept tickling and I just kept laughing, knowing from experience that's all I could really do. The fingers wriggled along the sides of each foot and then scratched furiously on my arches.
Through my hysterics, I could see my wife peek out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth. She gave me a sympathetic glance and then returned to her morning routine.
I love this house.
* * *
My wife, Ann, and I moved here shortly after our daughter, Kara, graduated from high school. We wanted a quiet place away from town. My wife and I both work mostly from home, so we both appreciate the quiet and solitude that comes from being a half mile from our nearest neighbors. We started looking for a house when Kara started high school, and it looked like we were never going to find something that we could afford.
We couldn't believe it when our realtor showed us this house. It was absolutely perfect. When the realtor told us the asking price and told us the utilities cost, I about had a heart attack. It just sounded too good to be true; there had to be a catch. Our realtor told us that the house had been on the market as long as she could remember. Every once in a while someone would buy it, but it was never more than a couple months before the house was back on the market with very motivated sellers.
* * *
I was eventually released from my bed-bound predicament. I showered and shaved and went downstairs for a cup of coffee, putting a piece of bread in the toaster and grabbing the paper.
"Good morning, Sweetie," I said to Ann as I met her in the kitchen.
"Good morning dear."
We didn't talk about the scene in the bedroom earlier that morning. There was no need to.
I love this house.
* * *
Despite the curious ownership history of the house, we found no reason to think there was anything wrong with the house. Previous owners hadn't wanted to talk about their reasons for selling, and the realtor speculated that they just found they didn't like the solitude as much as they thought they would. My wife and I knew that wouldn't be an issue for us, so we gladly bought the house at the asked-for price and moved in that summer.
* * *
It started with dreams. I was awaken one night by my wife lightly giggling and squirming in the bed beside me, seemingly in her sleep. I shook her gently to wake her up.
"What's so funny, Sweetie?"
"What?" she responded, groggily.
"You were laughing in your sleep."
"I was?"
"Yep."
"I was having the strangest dream. I was in school and had been sent to detention with Mrs. Martz -- remember her?"
"Yeah, she was pretty scary."
"Well, in my dream she said that since I thought I was such a class clown, that my punishment should make me laugh. Then she sat in front of my desk, put my feet in her lap and started to tickle them. She wasn't tickling very hard, just real lightly, and for some reason I was in my nightgown, so my feet were bare. I tickled so bad, and it felt so real. I could swear I really felt it."
"You're right, that was weird," I responded somewhat sympathetically. In reality, I wished I could have been in her dream. I love tickling, and seeing my beautiful wife getting tickled like that is the stuff fantasies are made of. She drifted back to sleep, but I let myself lay awake and dwell on the mental image of my wife's imaginary tickle torture.
* * *
I finished my coffee and was walking to my computer desk when I heard a *thump* in the living room, followed by a squeal from my wife.
"AAAAAAAHHHHH! NO! PLEASE! NO! AAAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I strolled into the living room to see my wife rolling around on the floor, squealing with laughter and batting at the air. She rolled around on the floor and alternately curled into a ball and arched her back in response to an unseen stimulus. Seen or unseen, however, it was obvious that she was simply getting the crap tickled out of her, apparently on her ribs and upper body. She swatted at her shirt as though she were trying to brush something away, but it was useless. I just watched, loving every minute of it, knowing there was nothing productive I could do anyway. The fingers would stop soon enough. They always did.
I love this house.
* * *
Ann kept having dreams. Every couple of nights she would wake up giggling, saying she had another "tickling" dream. The situation would vary, from being punished by teachers to being interrogated as a spy or pledging a sorority. She even said that one time she dreamt she was in a jungle and captured by a tickling plant. At any rate, each dream resulted in her getting tickled.
That was weird enough, but then I started having similar dreams. Like my wife, every couple of nights I would dream about finding myself in one ticklish situation or another, either laughing myself awake or being awaken by Ann. And like her, I could swear that I could really feel the tickling.
* * *
It was a productive day. Ann and I both spent most of the day at our computers, taking a break here and there and having lunch together. We went out for supper, came home, watched some TV and went to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.
I love this house.
* * *
We began to get nervous when Kara came home from college one weekend and started having "tickling" dreams, as well. One night I could hear her giggling in her room. I was beginning to wonder if we had some sort of intruder that was playing games with us, so I quietly peaked in on Kara. Kara was the only person in the room. She was giggling and stirring like I had seen her mother do so many nights before. I woke her up and asked her what was going on. Like her mother and me, she said she was dreaming she was a cheerleader and that the opposing team was tickling her to learn her team's plays, and that it felt so real.
I talked with Ann about it the next day. Neither of us knew what to think, but to be safe we installed a new electronic security system. I, for one, was enjoying the dreams -- not to mention Ann's descriptions of her dreams -- but I also wanted us to be safe.
* * *
This morning I woke up not to giggles, but to hysterical laughter coming from the bathroom. It was Ann. I went into the bathroom to see Ann's form dancing behind the frosted shower door. Her hands were at the top of the shower door, being held somehow by towel. Her legs had given out beneath her, so she was dangling from her wrists, twisting and squirming. The fingers were obviously getting her good.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NOT THAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! PLEEE--AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
It was a beautiful thing, even in silhouette. I instinctively held my ams a little closer to my sides. I knew from experience how bad those fingers could tickle.
Maybe the fingers could tell what I was thinking because I was suddenly shoved toward the shower door. I put my hands out to catch myself, but they were deflected upwards. Before I knew what was happening, I was face-to-face with Ann on the other side of the door, my wrists bound to the top of the door by a towel. Ann was still in hysterics.
"Oh, boy," I thought in the seconds between grasping my situation and feeling the fingers on my sides.
Within seconds, Ann and I were mirror images of tickle torture, laughing and begging, twisting and turning in vain attempts to avoid the tickling. The fingers spidered up and down my sides from my hips to my underarms and back again, lingering when they found a particularly sensitive spot. I fell into silent laughter when another set of fingers began tickling up and down my back while the first set set up shop under my arms.
After two or three minutes I heard Ann stop laughing. The towel released her and she sat in the shower, giggling and panting, recovering from her ordeal. I knew the fingers had started on her first, and her time was up. I, on the other hand, kept laughing. The fingers had found my stomach and were tickling up and down and across my ribs. No amount of movement on my part could shake the fingers, even for an instant.
After another few minutes, the tickling stopped and the towel released my hands.
"Did they get you as bad as they got me?" Ann asked from inside the shower.
"And then some."
"Sometimes I don't know why we put ourselves through this," she said as she stood up, resuming her shower.
"Because we love this house," I thought to myself.
* * *
The dreams continued, getting more intense each time but always at night and always while we were asleep. Then, one night we were sitting on the couch watching TV. It was chilly, so we were under a blanket, feet up on the coffee table.
Suddenly, we felt the blanket pull down tight as if someone had stretched the blanket and fastened the edges with stakes. We both struggled to get free, a little frightened at our situation.
That's when we saw them: a pair of ghostly hands hovering by the coffee table. They were translucent, barely visible with a faint glow, wispy, surrounded by a fine mist.
"Are you seeing this?" I asked Ann.
"What's happening?" she said, again trying to free herself from the blanket.
We both stared as the hands floated down and folded the edge of the blanket back, uncovering our feet. Both of us were barefoot and getting a little nervous, suspecting from our recurring dreams what might be coming next. We realized our premonitions were true when the hands positioned themselves at Ann's soles and began to wriggle in a way that could only imply one thing.
"Oh, crap!" Ann exclaimed, struggling anew. "You're kidding me! What's happening?"
"I think it's pretty clear," I said dryly, not quite knowing what to think.
Ann began to beg, as the fingers approached her soles and the anticipation came to its obvious conclusion. We were still holding each other under the blanket, and she about squeezed me to death when the tickling started. The fingers wasted no time, fluttering quickly up and down and all around Ann's feet. I was still a little scared, but it as like a fantasy holding Ann, feeling her squirm and struggle and laugh as her feet were mercilessly tickled. She has a beautiful laugh, and I could have watched her like this all night ... if the hands had let me.
The fingers stopped tickling Ann after a minute or two, leaving her gasping and giggling
"Are you O--KAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The fingers began tickling my feet. I tried to move my feet, but the fingers followed. I tried to brush the fingers away, but it was like brushing smoke. The fingers just kept tickling no matter what I tried. And man, did it tickle. I loved tickling, and I had gotten little tickled here and there, but I could never remember getting tickled like this. The fingers knew just where to go and just how to move to maximize the sensation. I laughed and struggled, trying to be careful not to hurt Ann.
Ann was not quiet even though she wasn't being tickled anymore.
"Stop! Why are you doing this? Leave us alone!"
After a minute or two the fingers stopped tickling me and returned to Ann, who instantly returned to hysterics. The fingers were as creative as they were effective. I watched as both hands concentrated on one of Ann's feet, tickling up and down both sides of the foot, driving Ann absolutely crazy. The fingers then switched to the other foot focusing on her toes, with the same result. They ended with a furious assault on her soles, scratching and skittering wildly all over.
The fingers had barely finished with Ann when they jumped over to me, repeating on me what they had done to Ann. I don't know that I'm quite as ticklish as she is, but I do know that I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
Ann and I filled the house with laughter for about twenty minutes straight, alternating from one to the other, the remoteness of our house meaning that there were no neighbors to hear us.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ended. The tickling stopped and the blanket released us, our exhaustion the only tangible evidence of what had happened.
"O my gawd, what was that?" Ann wondered when she caught her breath.
"I don't know."
"Do you think it will come back?"
"I don't know."
"What do you know?"
"That tickled."
"You think?"
"Do you suppose that thing has been tickling us in our sleep, and that's why we've been having those dreams?"
"That's possible, I guess, but really weird."
"It would explain a lot, though. I think we know why people keep selling this house."
"I'm tempted myself."
"Only tempted?" I was a little surprised that she didn't want to vacate the premises immediately.
"We looked a long time for this house, and I don't know that I want to give it up so easily. It's going to take more than a little tickling to chase me away."
"A little tickling?" I wondered if she had been in the same room as me for the past half hour. And I couldn't believe her cavalier attitude toward getting tickled like that again. "Are you saying you want to be tickled?"
"Heck, no. I seriously can't handle it. I'm just saying it may be a small price to pay. But you're gonna get it, too, so I don't want to speak for you."
"I'm game if you are."
"OK, then, we're staying."
I love this house.
[To be continued ...]
AN: This is just a sketch I've had bouncing around in my head, the beginnings of a story as much as anything else. I'm not sure where I'm going to take it yet. There are some possibilities ...
Part 1
I woke up this morning to find I couldn't move. The bedspread was wrapped tightly around me, arms pinned to my sides, my head sticking out from one end and my feet from the other.
"Oh, crap," I thought, bracing for what I knew was coming.
I braced myself as I felt the fingers begin to trace long paths up and down my soles, and I quickly dissolved into a steady stream of laughter. I moved my feet, trying to escape the tickling, but the fingers matched every move. I tried to use one foot to brush the finger off the other foot, but there was nothing to brush away. The fingers just kept tickling and I just kept laughing, knowing from experience that's all I could really do. The fingers wriggled along the sides of each foot and then scratched furiously on my arches.
Through my hysterics, I could see my wife peek out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth. She gave me a sympathetic glance and then returned to her morning routine.
I love this house.
* * *
My wife, Ann, and I moved here shortly after our daughter, Kara, graduated from high school. We wanted a quiet place away from town. My wife and I both work mostly from home, so we both appreciate the quiet and solitude that comes from being a half mile from our nearest neighbors. We started looking for a house when Kara started high school, and it looked like we were never going to find something that we could afford.
We couldn't believe it when our realtor showed us this house. It was absolutely perfect. When the realtor told us the asking price and told us the utilities cost, I about had a heart attack. It just sounded too good to be true; there had to be a catch. Our realtor told us that the house had been on the market as long as she could remember. Every once in a while someone would buy it, but it was never more than a couple months before the house was back on the market with very motivated sellers.
* * *
I was eventually released from my bed-bound predicament. I showered and shaved and went downstairs for a cup of coffee, putting a piece of bread in the toaster and grabbing the paper.
"Good morning, Sweetie," I said to Ann as I met her in the kitchen.
"Good morning dear."
We didn't talk about the scene in the bedroom earlier that morning. There was no need to.
I love this house.
* * *
Despite the curious ownership history of the house, we found no reason to think there was anything wrong with the house. Previous owners hadn't wanted to talk about their reasons for selling, and the realtor speculated that they just found they didn't like the solitude as much as they thought they would. My wife and I knew that wouldn't be an issue for us, so we gladly bought the house at the asked-for price and moved in that summer.
* * *
It started with dreams. I was awaken one night by my wife lightly giggling and squirming in the bed beside me, seemingly in her sleep. I shook her gently to wake her up.
"What's so funny, Sweetie?"
"What?" she responded, groggily.
"You were laughing in your sleep."
"I was?"
"Yep."
"I was having the strangest dream. I was in school and had been sent to detention with Mrs. Martz -- remember her?"
"Yeah, she was pretty scary."
"Well, in my dream she said that since I thought I was such a class clown, that my punishment should make me laugh. Then she sat in front of my desk, put my feet in her lap and started to tickle them. She wasn't tickling very hard, just real lightly, and for some reason I was in my nightgown, so my feet were bare. I tickled so bad, and it felt so real. I could swear I really felt it."
"You're right, that was weird," I responded somewhat sympathetically. In reality, I wished I could have been in her dream. I love tickling, and seeing my beautiful wife getting tickled like that is the stuff fantasies are made of. She drifted back to sleep, but I let myself lay awake and dwell on the mental image of my wife's imaginary tickle torture.
* * *
I finished my coffee and was walking to my computer desk when I heard a *thump* in the living room, followed by a squeal from my wife.
"AAAAAAAHHHHH! NO! PLEASE! NO! AAAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I strolled into the living room to see my wife rolling around on the floor, squealing with laughter and batting at the air. She rolled around on the floor and alternately curled into a ball and arched her back in response to an unseen stimulus. Seen or unseen, however, it was obvious that she was simply getting the crap tickled out of her, apparently on her ribs and upper body. She swatted at her shirt as though she were trying to brush something away, but it was useless. I just watched, loving every minute of it, knowing there was nothing productive I could do anyway. The fingers would stop soon enough. They always did.
I love this house.
* * *
Ann kept having dreams. Every couple of nights she would wake up giggling, saying she had another "tickling" dream. The situation would vary, from being punished by teachers to being interrogated as a spy or pledging a sorority. She even said that one time she dreamt she was in a jungle and captured by a tickling plant. At any rate, each dream resulted in her getting tickled.
That was weird enough, but then I started having similar dreams. Like my wife, every couple of nights I would dream about finding myself in one ticklish situation or another, either laughing myself awake or being awaken by Ann. And like her, I could swear that I could really feel the tickling.
* * *
It was a productive day. Ann and I both spent most of the day at our computers, taking a break here and there and having lunch together. We went out for supper, came home, watched some TV and went to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.
I love this house.
* * *
We began to get nervous when Kara came home from college one weekend and started having "tickling" dreams, as well. One night I could hear her giggling in her room. I was beginning to wonder if we had some sort of intruder that was playing games with us, so I quietly peaked in on Kara. Kara was the only person in the room. She was giggling and stirring like I had seen her mother do so many nights before. I woke her up and asked her what was going on. Like her mother and me, she said she was dreaming she was a cheerleader and that the opposing team was tickling her to learn her team's plays, and that it felt so real.
I talked with Ann about it the next day. Neither of us knew what to think, but to be safe we installed a new electronic security system. I, for one, was enjoying the dreams -- not to mention Ann's descriptions of her dreams -- but I also wanted us to be safe.
* * *
This morning I woke up not to giggles, but to hysterical laughter coming from the bathroom. It was Ann. I went into the bathroom to see Ann's form dancing behind the frosted shower door. Her hands were at the top of the shower door, being held somehow by towel. Her legs had given out beneath her, so she was dangling from her wrists, twisting and squirming. The fingers were obviously getting her good.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NOT THAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! PLEEE--AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
It was a beautiful thing, even in silhouette. I instinctively held my ams a little closer to my sides. I knew from experience how bad those fingers could tickle.
Maybe the fingers could tell what I was thinking because I was suddenly shoved toward the shower door. I put my hands out to catch myself, but they were deflected upwards. Before I knew what was happening, I was face-to-face with Ann on the other side of the door, my wrists bound to the top of the door by a towel. Ann was still in hysterics.
"Oh, boy," I thought in the seconds between grasping my situation and feeling the fingers on my sides.
Within seconds, Ann and I were mirror images of tickle torture, laughing and begging, twisting and turning in vain attempts to avoid the tickling. The fingers spidered up and down my sides from my hips to my underarms and back again, lingering when they found a particularly sensitive spot. I fell into silent laughter when another set of fingers began tickling up and down my back while the first set set up shop under my arms.
After two or three minutes I heard Ann stop laughing. The towel released her and she sat in the shower, giggling and panting, recovering from her ordeal. I knew the fingers had started on her first, and her time was up. I, on the other hand, kept laughing. The fingers had found my stomach and were tickling up and down and across my ribs. No amount of movement on my part could shake the fingers, even for an instant.
After another few minutes, the tickling stopped and the towel released my hands.
"Did they get you as bad as they got me?" Ann asked from inside the shower.
"And then some."
"Sometimes I don't know why we put ourselves through this," she said as she stood up, resuming her shower.
"Because we love this house," I thought to myself.
* * *
The dreams continued, getting more intense each time but always at night and always while we were asleep. Then, one night we were sitting on the couch watching TV. It was chilly, so we were under a blanket, feet up on the coffee table.
Suddenly, we felt the blanket pull down tight as if someone had stretched the blanket and fastened the edges with stakes. We both struggled to get free, a little frightened at our situation.
That's when we saw them: a pair of ghostly hands hovering by the coffee table. They were translucent, barely visible with a faint glow, wispy, surrounded by a fine mist.
"Are you seeing this?" I asked Ann.
"What's happening?" she said, again trying to free herself from the blanket.
We both stared as the hands floated down and folded the edge of the blanket back, uncovering our feet. Both of us were barefoot and getting a little nervous, suspecting from our recurring dreams what might be coming next. We realized our premonitions were true when the hands positioned themselves at Ann's soles and began to wriggle in a way that could only imply one thing.
"Oh, crap!" Ann exclaimed, struggling anew. "You're kidding me! What's happening?"
"I think it's pretty clear," I said dryly, not quite knowing what to think.
Ann began to beg, as the fingers approached her soles and the anticipation came to its obvious conclusion. We were still holding each other under the blanket, and she about squeezed me to death when the tickling started. The fingers wasted no time, fluttering quickly up and down and all around Ann's feet. I was still a little scared, but it as like a fantasy holding Ann, feeling her squirm and struggle and laugh as her feet were mercilessly tickled. She has a beautiful laugh, and I could have watched her like this all night ... if the hands had let me.
The fingers stopped tickling Ann after a minute or two, leaving her gasping and giggling
"Are you O--KAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The fingers began tickling my feet. I tried to move my feet, but the fingers followed. I tried to brush the fingers away, but it was like brushing smoke. The fingers just kept tickling no matter what I tried. And man, did it tickle. I loved tickling, and I had gotten little tickled here and there, but I could never remember getting tickled like this. The fingers knew just where to go and just how to move to maximize the sensation. I laughed and struggled, trying to be careful not to hurt Ann.
Ann was not quiet even though she wasn't being tickled anymore.
"Stop! Why are you doing this? Leave us alone!"
After a minute or two the fingers stopped tickling me and returned to Ann, who instantly returned to hysterics. The fingers were as creative as they were effective. I watched as both hands concentrated on one of Ann's feet, tickling up and down both sides of the foot, driving Ann absolutely crazy. The fingers then switched to the other foot focusing on her toes, with the same result. They ended with a furious assault on her soles, scratching and skittering wildly all over.
The fingers had barely finished with Ann when they jumped over to me, repeating on me what they had done to Ann. I don't know that I'm quite as ticklish as she is, but I do know that I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
Ann and I filled the house with laughter for about twenty minutes straight, alternating from one to the other, the remoteness of our house meaning that there were no neighbors to hear us.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ended. The tickling stopped and the blanket released us, our exhaustion the only tangible evidence of what had happened.
"O my gawd, what was that?" Ann wondered when she caught her breath.
"I don't know."
"Do you think it will come back?"
"I don't know."
"What do you know?"
"That tickled."
"You think?"
"Do you suppose that thing has been tickling us in our sleep, and that's why we've been having those dreams?"
"That's possible, I guess, but really weird."
"It would explain a lot, though. I think we know why people keep selling this house."
"I'm tempted myself."
"Only tempted?" I was a little surprised that she didn't want to vacate the premises immediately.
"We looked a long time for this house, and I don't know that I want to give it up so easily. It's going to take more than a little tickling to chase me away."
"A little tickling?" I wondered if she had been in the same room as me for the past half hour. And I couldn't believe her cavalier attitude toward getting tickled like that again. "Are you saying you want to be tickled?"
"Heck, no. I seriously can't handle it. I'm just saying it may be a small price to pay. But you're gonna get it, too, so I don't want to speak for you."
"I'm game if you are."
"OK, then, we're staying."
I love this house.
[To be continued ...]
AN: This is just a sketch I've had bouncing around in my head, the beginnings of a story as much as anything else. I'm not sure where I'm going to take it yet. There are some possibilities ...
Great job!!
