Greetings! To be up-front, there isn't much tickling in this post. It's an intro to a story idea I had, one I could see evolving into a bit of a series. I have several parts outlined in my mind, but wanted to see if anyone liked the general premise. So. Let me know what you think, and if so encouraged I shall continue.
And against all better judgment, I shall title this:
Super Bowl Ticklets.
Part 1.
This is embarrassing, but six months ago I went to a boat show. Honest to God, a boat show. It was across the street from where I worked, I didn’t have anything to do on my lunch break, so I walked through there. Nothing but beef jerky, motorhomes, rednecks, and a 1,001 giveaways.
It’s the giveaways that were important. Sucked into the rudimentary culture as I was, I must’ve blindly filled out a hundred different raffle entry forms. Fishing rods, fishing boats, deer hunting stands, years supply of kettle corn, Super Bowl tickets…..
Super Bowl tickets?
Yeah, you could’ve fooled me, too. But I got the call just yesterday. The box traveled around to hundreds of local shows, finally made it back to the national location, and whadaya know? 1 in 1,000,000 shot. Super Bowl tickets.
There’s only one problem. I probably care more about boats than I do about football. And I couldn’t care less about boats. Briefly naïve, I lamented that my one in a million shot would be wasted on something I didn’t even want. But then I began to take notice of all the crazy raffles and auctions for Super Bowl tickets on E-Bay and the like. $10,000 dollars for a ticket, liver transplant for a ticket, Hummer for a ticket, etc etc etc. I realized this was a business opportunity, first and foremost.
I could get anything…ANYTHING, for this ticket.
///
Larissa Andrews--Chicago native, life-long Bears fan, 19 year-old-college student, proud owner of a signed Brian Urlacher game-worn jersey—nearly soiled herself when she saw the ad:
Attention ladies: I have one Super Bowl ticket to auction off. Terms of acquisition may be negotiated in person. Monetary bids will not be accepted. If intrigued, come by and see what it’s all about. Again, ladies only!
In the back of her mind, Larissa realized it sounded creepy. Not even creepy, down-right terrifying. But the guy was serious. He had scanned a picture of the ticket into his ad. It was legit. And being that he and she both were dwelling in the heart of Dallas Cowboys country in south Texas—there hadn’t been much of a response. Bears-Colts? The locals’ dreams had perished with the slip of a Tony Romo snap. The ticket was all hers. All she had to do was…
Knock on his door….
///
Honestly, I couldn’t believe it had worked. For a while I was convinced it wouldn’t…two days without an inquiry and I thought I would have to resort to selling it. But finally Larissa emailed me. A quick check of MySpace revealed that she indeed was the ideal ticklee—the ticklee of fantasies. Local college student, long, flowing brown hair, skinny but voluptuous, square glasses and a cute, charming smile. A sexy girl next door. She arrived wearing jeans and a tank-top, flip-flops and toenails painted dark red—even winter in South Texas is warm enough for such attire. She was visibly nervous, but I instantly sensed in her a determination to put herself through near anything to obtain the ticket she so badly coveted. From the very nature of the ad she had obviously contemplated the most vulgar of sexual acts in order to secure her trip to the game. The result was a coyly seductive appearance—one conveying she hated me for it, but she was willing to give herself to me for this opportunity.
God it was appealing.
“Hi Larissa,” I said, trying to act as if I was anything other than what I was. “Come on in.” She did enter, and I think she was somewhat comforted to note I was as nervous as her. “Have a seat.”
She sat down on the couch, and I sat in the chair across the room. I couldn’t believe this was happening! Well---I couldn’t believe what MIGHT be about to happen. I had to get her to agree to do it first. But from the look in her eyes, I could tell she would.
“Larissa, I know this is kind of a strange situation. It’s empowering, knowing I could get almost anything for this ticket—probably over $10,000. I’ll gladly give it to you if you’ll help me live out one of my fantasies….”
///
Larissa, feeling a queasiness in her stomach and a dread she hadn’t expected, said in her most resolute voice, “What’s your fantasy?”
Her heart leapt when he told her. Tickling? TICKLING? What a total loser! Here she was ready to shag his brains out, and all he wanted to do was watch her laugh? Psssh. She almost felt silly for being nervous. The relief she felt was so great she practically seemed eager when she agreed. Granted—she wasn’t wild about letting him tie her up, but it seemed a natural requirement for the activity.
It was simple. 30 minutes. Arms over her head. Feet tied together at the foot of the bed. No sexual contact. She’d had worse at the OB-GYN, and would again. And this was for the SUPER BOWL! She was suddenly so into it, she upped the ante just to seal the deal: “Tell you what,” she said. “Let me see the ticket—just so I’ll know you’re not bluffing—and then I’ll get rid of these itchy pants and this silly top so you can have at my most tickly spots!”
///
I couldn’t believe anyone would surrender themselves to torture for a football game. And so willingly! My God, you could’ve used my Johnson for a sun-dial. I showed her the ticket, and before long she was standing before me, smiling in her undies, almost as turned on as I was with thoughts of her seat in the upper deck behind the endzone.
I wrapped the Velcro cuffs around her wrists, threaded the rope through the loops, and tied it off to the headboard above my bed. Her stomach became perfectly flat, two of her ribs showed on each side. Her breasts strained slightly inside her bra, and her smooth armpits made delightful hollows as her arms reached hopelessly above her. She giggled slightly as her cheeks blushed. I could tell this was definitely out of her element, and I think in a way we both enjoyed how unusual this was for the other. It was bold of me to ask a girl to do this—even for Super Bowl tickets, and it was bold of her to let a complete stranger tie her up. As I wrapped her ankles several times with rope, and pulled her taut at the foot of the bed, she let out a slight gasp—almost a coo—of anticipation.
///
Larissa couldn’t move. More than she had expected she truthfully couldn’t move. Maybe it was her vulnerability talking, but this guy’s demeanor had seemingly gravitated away from shy toward something more like—vindicated. Almost primal. He was shamelessly leering at her exposed body, and even though he had promised an absence of sexuality, he was frequently stroking and adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants.
Suddenly this man, a stranger morphing before her eyes, asked with a surprisingly unsettled voice: “Larissa, did you know that in many circles, tickling is regarded as an exquisite form of…torture?”
///
I watched as her arms contracted—testing the sturdiness of the rope holding her cuffed hands above her head. When those hands stopped moving, despite her best effort to move them, I saw her realize that it could be torture. Exquisite torture. I drug my finger up her foot. She yelped.
The raffle had begun.
And against all better judgment, I shall title this:
Super Bowl Ticklets.
Part 1.
This is embarrassing, but six months ago I went to a boat show. Honest to God, a boat show. It was across the street from where I worked, I didn’t have anything to do on my lunch break, so I walked through there. Nothing but beef jerky, motorhomes, rednecks, and a 1,001 giveaways.
It’s the giveaways that were important. Sucked into the rudimentary culture as I was, I must’ve blindly filled out a hundred different raffle entry forms. Fishing rods, fishing boats, deer hunting stands, years supply of kettle corn, Super Bowl tickets…..
Super Bowl tickets?
Yeah, you could’ve fooled me, too. But I got the call just yesterday. The box traveled around to hundreds of local shows, finally made it back to the national location, and whadaya know? 1 in 1,000,000 shot. Super Bowl tickets.
There’s only one problem. I probably care more about boats than I do about football. And I couldn’t care less about boats. Briefly naïve, I lamented that my one in a million shot would be wasted on something I didn’t even want. But then I began to take notice of all the crazy raffles and auctions for Super Bowl tickets on E-Bay and the like. $10,000 dollars for a ticket, liver transplant for a ticket, Hummer for a ticket, etc etc etc. I realized this was a business opportunity, first and foremost.
I could get anything…ANYTHING, for this ticket.
///
Larissa Andrews--Chicago native, life-long Bears fan, 19 year-old-college student, proud owner of a signed Brian Urlacher game-worn jersey—nearly soiled herself when she saw the ad:
Attention ladies: I have one Super Bowl ticket to auction off. Terms of acquisition may be negotiated in person. Monetary bids will not be accepted. If intrigued, come by and see what it’s all about. Again, ladies only!
In the back of her mind, Larissa realized it sounded creepy. Not even creepy, down-right terrifying. But the guy was serious. He had scanned a picture of the ticket into his ad. It was legit. And being that he and she both were dwelling in the heart of Dallas Cowboys country in south Texas—there hadn’t been much of a response. Bears-Colts? The locals’ dreams had perished with the slip of a Tony Romo snap. The ticket was all hers. All she had to do was…
Knock on his door….
///
Honestly, I couldn’t believe it had worked. For a while I was convinced it wouldn’t…two days without an inquiry and I thought I would have to resort to selling it. But finally Larissa emailed me. A quick check of MySpace revealed that she indeed was the ideal ticklee—the ticklee of fantasies. Local college student, long, flowing brown hair, skinny but voluptuous, square glasses and a cute, charming smile. A sexy girl next door. She arrived wearing jeans and a tank-top, flip-flops and toenails painted dark red—even winter in South Texas is warm enough for such attire. She was visibly nervous, but I instantly sensed in her a determination to put herself through near anything to obtain the ticket she so badly coveted. From the very nature of the ad she had obviously contemplated the most vulgar of sexual acts in order to secure her trip to the game. The result was a coyly seductive appearance—one conveying she hated me for it, but she was willing to give herself to me for this opportunity.
God it was appealing.
“Hi Larissa,” I said, trying to act as if I was anything other than what I was. “Come on in.” She did enter, and I think she was somewhat comforted to note I was as nervous as her. “Have a seat.”
She sat down on the couch, and I sat in the chair across the room. I couldn’t believe this was happening! Well---I couldn’t believe what MIGHT be about to happen. I had to get her to agree to do it first. But from the look in her eyes, I could tell she would.
“Larissa, I know this is kind of a strange situation. It’s empowering, knowing I could get almost anything for this ticket—probably over $10,000. I’ll gladly give it to you if you’ll help me live out one of my fantasies….”
///
Larissa, feeling a queasiness in her stomach and a dread she hadn’t expected, said in her most resolute voice, “What’s your fantasy?”
Her heart leapt when he told her. Tickling? TICKLING? What a total loser! Here she was ready to shag his brains out, and all he wanted to do was watch her laugh? Psssh. She almost felt silly for being nervous. The relief she felt was so great she practically seemed eager when she agreed. Granted—she wasn’t wild about letting him tie her up, but it seemed a natural requirement for the activity.
It was simple. 30 minutes. Arms over her head. Feet tied together at the foot of the bed. No sexual contact. She’d had worse at the OB-GYN, and would again. And this was for the SUPER BOWL! She was suddenly so into it, she upped the ante just to seal the deal: “Tell you what,” she said. “Let me see the ticket—just so I’ll know you’re not bluffing—and then I’ll get rid of these itchy pants and this silly top so you can have at my most tickly spots!”
///
I couldn’t believe anyone would surrender themselves to torture for a football game. And so willingly! My God, you could’ve used my Johnson for a sun-dial. I showed her the ticket, and before long she was standing before me, smiling in her undies, almost as turned on as I was with thoughts of her seat in the upper deck behind the endzone.
I wrapped the Velcro cuffs around her wrists, threaded the rope through the loops, and tied it off to the headboard above my bed. Her stomach became perfectly flat, two of her ribs showed on each side. Her breasts strained slightly inside her bra, and her smooth armpits made delightful hollows as her arms reached hopelessly above her. She giggled slightly as her cheeks blushed. I could tell this was definitely out of her element, and I think in a way we both enjoyed how unusual this was for the other. It was bold of me to ask a girl to do this—even for Super Bowl tickets, and it was bold of her to let a complete stranger tie her up. As I wrapped her ankles several times with rope, and pulled her taut at the foot of the bed, she let out a slight gasp—almost a coo—of anticipation.
///
Larissa couldn’t move. More than she had expected she truthfully couldn’t move. Maybe it was her vulnerability talking, but this guy’s demeanor had seemingly gravitated away from shy toward something more like—vindicated. Almost primal. He was shamelessly leering at her exposed body, and even though he had promised an absence of sexuality, he was frequently stroking and adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants.
Suddenly this man, a stranger morphing before her eyes, asked with a surprisingly unsettled voice: “Larissa, did you know that in many circles, tickling is regarded as an exquisite form of…torture?”
///
I watched as her arms contracted—testing the sturdiness of the rope holding her cuffed hands above her head. When those hands stopped moving, despite her best effort to move them, I saw her realize that it could be torture. Exquisite torture. I drug my finger up her foot. She yelped.
The raffle had begun.
