Christy
by Max Speer
Pulp Tickle Fiction
My mouth felt like it was stuffed with Brillo pads. It was my first professional job working shotgun with Hans, the world-renown fashion photographer.
Now, I had no problem with him. In fact, we hit it off great earlier in the week. That's why he hired me. And me, just out of collage, impressive portfolio I must admit, but a job with Hans, THE Hans. This still wasn't the reason that my mouth was filled with steel wool. It was her, Christy Turlington, the Chanel model.
How many hours did I spend, thumbing through fashion mags in Barnes and Nobel, drooling over Christy Turlington and her soft, ticklish skin, while other guys drooled on Penthouse. I didn't need Penthouse. I don't need Playboy. I NEED to tickle. That's my obsession; and I'm proud of it.
Now back to my story.
Here I was, going to meet (in the flesh so to speak) the girl of my dreams; inches away from my fingers. Man, this was gonna be hard. Real hard (me too), keeping those fingers away from Christy's soft, bare feet. It was gonna be real hard to keep them off her delicate ribcage or the smooth silk of her hairless underarms. AHHH!!!! My first professional job with Hans Bjorkijk. I COULD'T BLOW IT? Could I? Here's what happened...
Christy walked into the studio in sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. I was almost relieved. She walked into the dressing room with Madeline, the make-up stylist and Sally, the changer.
"Is that what she's wearing today?" I asked naively. Hans just looked at me in astonishment and shook his head, loading his cameras.
An hour later she walked out of the dressing room and I almost fainted. A floral bikini floated through the room, filled by the most astoningly gorgeous woman I had ever witnessed with two eyes and a whopping erection (pardon my inference to the Whopper; no similarities intended). The way she moved was like...like...butter. I watched every move. I saw her feet light so gently on the floor that it seemed that the floor was nothing but a cushion of air. Oh, to be that air! Her arms swung back and forth as she walked, allowing my eagle-eyes to catch that milisecond glimpse of flawless underarm. Her ribs, oh, her ribs protruded in ripples down her smooth, perfectly shaped sides. I had to have this woman. What would you do, my friends? Blow a career? Don't answer. I know what YOU anilmals would do. Not me. I was civilized.
Christy stood on our makeshift stage in front of the beach flats and umbrellas. She was like an angel as she moved in a strobe shower from Hans' masterful camera. He passed each one to me to reload and accept the loaded replacement so fast that I nearly dropped them. I was too busy staring at my ticklish princess. But was she ticklish? Would I ever know?
I watched her bare arms go up as she posed with her hands behind her head. I swear I nearly puked I was so excited (sorry). Then came the break. Hans was out of there to catch a smoke and it was Christy Turlington and me.
"I'm exhausted," she said.
"What?" I heard her speak and saw her mouth move but I couldn't understand the language; English or something like that. I was lost in Lustworld.
She sat on the lounge chair and crossed her ankles. My friends, her feet here facing me; three feet away from my eyes. Three feet away from my fingers. My fingers wriggled involuntarily. Christy's toes seemed to be carrying on a silent conversation with my fingers because they, too started wriggling.
"My feet are killing me," she said bending her toes downward and putting her left arm behind her head. She closed her eyes.
"Would you like hngff to yue xy sthhhheee?" I mumbled.
"What?" she asked with a smile, holding back a giggle.
"Would....you...like.....a...f-f-f-foot (gulp)...massage?"
"Oh would you?" she said delighted. That smile.
I crawled towards her feet on my knees. I felt like I was some male concubine, some eunich, some worthless piece of @#%$. But when I sat, cross-legged; my face inches from her feet; and when I took her foot in my hands; a foot that felt so soft it couldn't possibly have been an adult woman's foot but rather a baby. When I felt that soft, ticklish skin in my hands....I was A GOD!!!!! I was the MASTER!!!!
It was all over for old Christy. She was history!
My head was now clear. I could see better. I even threw away my glasses. The world was me and Christy Turlington's bare foot. I began to massage with the skill of a Shiatzu master. Christy moaned and threw her head back.
"You...are...good!" was all she could say.
"I'm a Shiatzu Master" I said, echoing my own inflated egotistical thoughts. "Now, I'm gonna do something to relive all of your stress but you have to trust me, okay?"
"Whatever you say," she said. Bad move, Christy.
"Now, try not to move. I'm going to stimulate your...uh... Sashimi Points."
(Sashimi? Isn't that a food?)
I held her foot with my left hand pulling back some of her toes with my fingers. Then I gently touched the soft surface of her foot right at the ball of the sole.
Instantly, I felt a slight tug. I continued by dropping my fingers down her soft sole; four fingers sliding down slooooooowly. I loved how her sole felt against my fingers. I could even hear the friction and delighted in it.
Then I heard it. The giggle.
"That tickles!" she said, giggling. Her foot began to pull from my hand but I held it tightly.
"Don't move," I said fitmly but politely. "It'll ruin the Karma."
She stopped tugging for a moment, until I began the soft horse-leg 'gallop' of my fingertips on her sole, down to the heel and up to the base of her toes. The tug was stronger and I heard her squealing in laughter. I looked up and saw her clawing at the top of the beach chair, her gorgeous face wide in laughter.
"Please!" she laughed. "That tickles too much. Stop it!"
I let her foot down and crawled over to her.
"I'm sorry but I needed to do that to stimulate the..." I stopped and she said, "What? What's the matter?"
I was staring at her flawless and perfectly hairless underarm exposed since her left arm was behind her head.
"Nothing," I said. "It's, it's just..."
"What??"
"There is another Shiatzu stimulation called ...uh ...Su ...Sushi ...ah ...Sushimi. It's a stimulation that relaxes your whole body."
Christy looked at me and smiled. "Okay, but not my feet, okay? They're way too ticklish."
"Don't worry," I said as I held her wrist with my left hand. "Now, don't move."
She closed her eyes and I smiled. I felt like kissing her. My lower body was hidden beneath the lounge chair, otherwise she would have known the extent to which I was aroused (did I do it again with the word "extent"?).
I touched my fingertips on the inside of her elbow and let my fingers stroke slowly and gently down towards her awaiting armpit.
Instantly, Christy broke into a huge smile and she bit her lip. She started to giggle as my fingers danced lightly and played on her incredibly soft, ticklish skin. I felt the tug at her wrist but I held it firmly. I played my fingertips down to the upper perimieter of her armpit. The armpit made a little hollow and inside that hollow was a slight hairless mound that I knew to be the ultimate ticklish spot on many women.
I lifted my fingers and whispered in her ear. "Now don't move..."
I touched my fingers on that ticklish mound and began stroking like spider legs.
Immediately I felt the tug, more intensely, and she broke into a hysterical laugh, lifting her body up and grabbing at my fingers with her other hand. I stopped.
"Now, Ms. Turlington. You have to be good and now move while I do this or the treatment won't work."
"Where did you learn this treatment," she said. "The Marquis deSade?"
I looked down and saw the terrycloth belt of her robe.
"Now this is only so you don't move." I began to tie her wrists up over her head to the upper bar of the lounge chair.
"What's this all about?" she said astonished.
I stopped and acted insulted. 'Don't you trust me?"
"Yes, I trust you," she said foolishly.
I crawled down to her feet and, with my own belt, tied her ankles together.
"No feet," she said adamantly.
"No," I said. "Of course not."
I returned to her arms and began to stroke, now with two hands, down the soft lengths of her bare arms tracing a trail of ticklish torture towards her exposed armpits.
Christy laughed a high, girlish laugh, twisting her body the best she could as I blissfully tickled down and onto her soft highly ticklish armpits.
Her laughter turned to a scream and a squeal and she shouted and laughed and shouted and pleaded for release. I sat there, ten fingers in place on her ticklish underarms, tickling intently, mesmoized. I stared into her face and caught a whiff of her perfume. I was close to jumping on top of her and making love to her but that's called rape and decent guys don't do that sort of thing. So I was happy to tickle the ever-loving @#%$ out of her as she squealed and squeaked and giggled and pleaded for release. My horniness was off the scale and I squeezed my thigh over my other to try and relieve something! Doesn't work with guys. Only women can get away with that!
I tickled her underarms so intensely that for a moment, no sound came out of her pretty face. The silent laugh. I knew that very well. I stopped for a brief moment until the laughter was released and began to tickle down her exposed ribcage and across her belly.
Christy nearly threw her body off the chair as she jerked violently, laughing and throwing her head back and forth. I tickled her belly button and soft sides under the ribcage. Then I felt for sensitive spots on the ribs themselves marvelling how the pitch of her laughter got higher, the higher I tickled.
I stopped and heard her silently thank her personal deity. But I was only crawling to her feet. I lifted her bound ankles and heard her saying, "Oh no. No!!! Not my feeeeet!!!!!" But the last word transformed into a squeal that probably only dogs could hear. She laughed and squealed and tossed her head back and forth as I clawed the bottoms of her pretty feet with both hands as I secured her tugging feet under my elbow. I lifted them and sucked on her toes as I tickled the soft soles and she began to scream. On and on, relentlessly I tickled her soft bare feet: the soles, the balls, under the toes, the tops, the ankles, the arches, the insteps. Her toes tasted like some sort of skin cream; apricot! I nearly lost my teeth as I sucked and tickled. But who cares at that point. I was tickling Christy Turlington.
Suddenly I looked up and saw someone standing in front of me. Hans! I let her toes drop out of my mouth and stared at his face. I lifted the bound feet towards him like I was offering an hors d'orves, or a lick of a lollipop. He just shook his head. I was afraid to look back at Christy. I untied her ankles and rubbed them. Hans was already untying her wrists and apologizing a mile a minute.
I felt my career go up in smoke.
"Hans," Christy said. "Where did you find that man. I want him at every shoot. In fact, I've GOT to borrow him when we fly to Bali for the Sports Illustrated shoot. Where have you been hiding that man?"
I turned to her and she smiled at me.
"Ah, thanks," I said lighting up a smoke with shaking hands.
Christy got up and walked to the dressing room to change. As she walked by me she poked my side. I spit smoke out of my mouth and coughed.
"Nervous?" she said, smiling. "Perhaps you need a little ...uh ...
Sushimi."
by Max Speer
Pulp Tickle Fiction
My mouth felt like it was stuffed with Brillo pads. It was my first professional job working shotgun with Hans, the world-renown fashion photographer.
Now, I had no problem with him. In fact, we hit it off great earlier in the week. That's why he hired me. And me, just out of collage, impressive portfolio I must admit, but a job with Hans, THE Hans. This still wasn't the reason that my mouth was filled with steel wool. It was her, Christy Turlington, the Chanel model.
How many hours did I spend, thumbing through fashion mags in Barnes and Nobel, drooling over Christy Turlington and her soft, ticklish skin, while other guys drooled on Penthouse. I didn't need Penthouse. I don't need Playboy. I NEED to tickle. That's my obsession; and I'm proud of it.
Now back to my story.
Here I was, going to meet (in the flesh so to speak) the girl of my dreams; inches away from my fingers. Man, this was gonna be hard. Real hard (me too), keeping those fingers away from Christy's soft, bare feet. It was gonna be real hard to keep them off her delicate ribcage or the smooth silk of her hairless underarms. AHHH!!!! My first professional job with Hans Bjorkijk. I COULD'T BLOW IT? Could I? Here's what happened...
Christy walked into the studio in sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. I was almost relieved. She walked into the dressing room with Madeline, the make-up stylist and Sally, the changer.
"Is that what she's wearing today?" I asked naively. Hans just looked at me in astonishment and shook his head, loading his cameras.
An hour later she walked out of the dressing room and I almost fainted. A floral bikini floated through the room, filled by the most astoningly gorgeous woman I had ever witnessed with two eyes and a whopping erection (pardon my inference to the Whopper; no similarities intended). The way she moved was like...like...butter. I watched every move. I saw her feet light so gently on the floor that it seemed that the floor was nothing but a cushion of air. Oh, to be that air! Her arms swung back and forth as she walked, allowing my eagle-eyes to catch that milisecond glimpse of flawless underarm. Her ribs, oh, her ribs protruded in ripples down her smooth, perfectly shaped sides. I had to have this woman. What would you do, my friends? Blow a career? Don't answer. I know what YOU anilmals would do. Not me. I was civilized.
Christy stood on our makeshift stage in front of the beach flats and umbrellas. She was like an angel as she moved in a strobe shower from Hans' masterful camera. He passed each one to me to reload and accept the loaded replacement so fast that I nearly dropped them. I was too busy staring at my ticklish princess. But was she ticklish? Would I ever know?
I watched her bare arms go up as she posed with her hands behind her head. I swear I nearly puked I was so excited (sorry). Then came the break. Hans was out of there to catch a smoke and it was Christy Turlington and me.
"I'm exhausted," she said.
"What?" I heard her speak and saw her mouth move but I couldn't understand the language; English or something like that. I was lost in Lustworld.
She sat on the lounge chair and crossed her ankles. My friends, her feet here facing me; three feet away from my eyes. Three feet away from my fingers. My fingers wriggled involuntarily. Christy's toes seemed to be carrying on a silent conversation with my fingers because they, too started wriggling.
"My feet are killing me," she said bending her toes downward and putting her left arm behind her head. She closed her eyes.
"Would you like hngff to yue xy sthhhheee?" I mumbled.
"What?" she asked with a smile, holding back a giggle.
"Would....you...like.....a...f-f-f-foot (gulp)...massage?"
"Oh would you?" she said delighted. That smile.
I crawled towards her feet on my knees. I felt like I was some male concubine, some eunich, some worthless piece of @#%$. But when I sat, cross-legged; my face inches from her feet; and when I took her foot in my hands; a foot that felt so soft it couldn't possibly have been an adult woman's foot but rather a baby. When I felt that soft, ticklish skin in my hands....I was A GOD!!!!! I was the MASTER!!!!
It was all over for old Christy. She was history!
My head was now clear. I could see better. I even threw away my glasses. The world was me and Christy Turlington's bare foot. I began to massage with the skill of a Shiatzu master. Christy moaned and threw her head back.
"You...are...good!" was all she could say.
"I'm a Shiatzu Master" I said, echoing my own inflated egotistical thoughts. "Now, I'm gonna do something to relive all of your stress but you have to trust me, okay?"
"Whatever you say," she said. Bad move, Christy.
"Now, try not to move. I'm going to stimulate your...uh... Sashimi Points."
(Sashimi? Isn't that a food?)
I held her foot with my left hand pulling back some of her toes with my fingers. Then I gently touched the soft surface of her foot right at the ball of the sole.
Instantly, I felt a slight tug. I continued by dropping my fingers down her soft sole; four fingers sliding down slooooooowly. I loved how her sole felt against my fingers. I could even hear the friction and delighted in it.
Then I heard it. The giggle.
"That tickles!" she said, giggling. Her foot began to pull from my hand but I held it tightly.
"Don't move," I said fitmly but politely. "It'll ruin the Karma."
She stopped tugging for a moment, until I began the soft horse-leg 'gallop' of my fingertips on her sole, down to the heel and up to the base of her toes. The tug was stronger and I heard her squealing in laughter. I looked up and saw her clawing at the top of the beach chair, her gorgeous face wide in laughter.
"Please!" she laughed. "That tickles too much. Stop it!"
I let her foot down and crawled over to her.
"I'm sorry but I needed to do that to stimulate the..." I stopped and she said, "What? What's the matter?"
I was staring at her flawless and perfectly hairless underarm exposed since her left arm was behind her head.
"Nothing," I said. "It's, it's just..."
"What??"
"There is another Shiatzu stimulation called ...uh ...Su ...Sushi ...ah ...Sushimi. It's a stimulation that relaxes your whole body."
Christy looked at me and smiled. "Okay, but not my feet, okay? They're way too ticklish."
"Don't worry," I said as I held her wrist with my left hand. "Now, don't move."
She closed her eyes and I smiled. I felt like kissing her. My lower body was hidden beneath the lounge chair, otherwise she would have known the extent to which I was aroused (did I do it again with the word "extent"?).
I touched my fingertips on the inside of her elbow and let my fingers stroke slowly and gently down towards her awaiting armpit.
Instantly, Christy broke into a huge smile and she bit her lip. She started to giggle as my fingers danced lightly and played on her incredibly soft, ticklish skin. I felt the tug at her wrist but I held it firmly. I played my fingertips down to the upper perimieter of her armpit. The armpit made a little hollow and inside that hollow was a slight hairless mound that I knew to be the ultimate ticklish spot on many women.
I lifted my fingers and whispered in her ear. "Now don't move..."
I touched my fingers on that ticklish mound and began stroking like spider legs.
Immediately I felt the tug, more intensely, and she broke into a hysterical laugh, lifting her body up and grabbing at my fingers with her other hand. I stopped.
"Now, Ms. Turlington. You have to be good and now move while I do this or the treatment won't work."
"Where did you learn this treatment," she said. "The Marquis deSade?"
I looked down and saw the terrycloth belt of her robe.
"Now this is only so you don't move." I began to tie her wrists up over her head to the upper bar of the lounge chair.
"What's this all about?" she said astonished.
I stopped and acted insulted. 'Don't you trust me?"
"Yes, I trust you," she said foolishly.
I crawled down to her feet and, with my own belt, tied her ankles together.
"No feet," she said adamantly.
"No," I said. "Of course not."
I returned to her arms and began to stroke, now with two hands, down the soft lengths of her bare arms tracing a trail of ticklish torture towards her exposed armpits.
Christy laughed a high, girlish laugh, twisting her body the best she could as I blissfully tickled down and onto her soft highly ticklish armpits.
Her laughter turned to a scream and a squeal and she shouted and laughed and shouted and pleaded for release. I sat there, ten fingers in place on her ticklish underarms, tickling intently, mesmoized. I stared into her face and caught a whiff of her perfume. I was close to jumping on top of her and making love to her but that's called rape and decent guys don't do that sort of thing. So I was happy to tickle the ever-loving @#%$ out of her as she squealed and squeaked and giggled and pleaded for release. My horniness was off the scale and I squeezed my thigh over my other to try and relieve something! Doesn't work with guys. Only women can get away with that!
I tickled her underarms so intensely that for a moment, no sound came out of her pretty face. The silent laugh. I knew that very well. I stopped for a brief moment until the laughter was released and began to tickle down her exposed ribcage and across her belly.
Christy nearly threw her body off the chair as she jerked violently, laughing and throwing her head back and forth. I tickled her belly button and soft sides under the ribcage. Then I felt for sensitive spots on the ribs themselves marvelling how the pitch of her laughter got higher, the higher I tickled.
I stopped and heard her silently thank her personal deity. But I was only crawling to her feet. I lifted her bound ankles and heard her saying, "Oh no. No!!! Not my feeeeet!!!!!" But the last word transformed into a squeal that probably only dogs could hear. She laughed and squealed and tossed her head back and forth as I clawed the bottoms of her pretty feet with both hands as I secured her tugging feet under my elbow. I lifted them and sucked on her toes as I tickled the soft soles and she began to scream. On and on, relentlessly I tickled her soft bare feet: the soles, the balls, under the toes, the tops, the ankles, the arches, the insteps. Her toes tasted like some sort of skin cream; apricot! I nearly lost my teeth as I sucked and tickled. But who cares at that point. I was tickling Christy Turlington.
Suddenly I looked up and saw someone standing in front of me. Hans! I let her toes drop out of my mouth and stared at his face. I lifted the bound feet towards him like I was offering an hors d'orves, or a lick of a lollipop. He just shook his head. I was afraid to look back at Christy. I untied her ankles and rubbed them. Hans was already untying her wrists and apologizing a mile a minute.
I felt my career go up in smoke.
"Hans," Christy said. "Where did you find that man. I want him at every shoot. In fact, I've GOT to borrow him when we fly to Bali for the Sports Illustrated shoot. Where have you been hiding that man?"
I turned to her and she smiled at me.
"Ah, thanks," I said lighting up a smoke with shaking hands.
Christy got up and walked to the dressing room to change. As she walked by me she poked my side. I spit smoke out of my mouth and coughed.
"Nervous?" she said, smiling. "Perhaps you need a little ...uh ...
Sushimi."
