As always, feedback is welcome--did I mention this was my first tickling story? Love to know how I'm doing...
*********************************************************************
When last we left our intrepid heroine...
“I’m serious!” Bonnie shouted, embarrassed into anger. “Let me out of here!”
Murphy just kept on smiling. “No,” he said, his tone one of cheerful indifference. “Now...grid two.” And he reached out towards her helpless armpits.
*********************************************************************
And now, Part II of our saga....
“NOOOOOOOO!” Bonnie screamed desperately, shaking her head back and forth and tugging uselessly in an effort to free her arms. She was desperate enough that it may have worked, if only there had been something there to free herself from. As it was, though, all her struggles amounted to was a barely noticeable twitching in the muscles of her upper arms, which only made her smooth, stretched armpits look all the more inviting.
“What’s wrong, Bonnie?” Murphy asked mock-solicitously, his hands moving ever closer to the exposed ivory skin of her underarms. “You’re not ticklish there, are you?” He paused, his hands poised barely an inch away from the girl’s skin, and began wiggling his fingers.
Bonnie shook her head, erupting into terrified giggles as her sensitive underarms tingled with ticklish anticipation. “Please, pleheheese, not there, anywhere but there. I can’t take it!”
But Murphy just smiled. “You’re not supposed to be able to take it, dear. That’s why they call it torture.” Ignoring his victim’s agonized scream, he proceeded to lay his fingers ever-so-lightly on the soft skin of Bonnie’s inner arms, moving them in a rapid, dancing pattern right into the heart of the sensitive hollows beneath. “Don’t worry,” he said, barely audible over the desperate, sobbing screams his actions were drawing from his hapless victim, “only twenty minutes to go on this grid.”
Bonnie barely heard him. Every sound, every sensation, every fiber of her being was centered in her trapped, ticklish underarms. She threw her head from side to side, tears streaming down her cheeks as the unbearably light touches kept coming, random, rapid, mercilessly teasing her nerves. Her throat ached from screaming, and her lungs labored for oxygen, but the constant tickling gave her no respite. If it weren’t for the damned recorder, policing her system, she would have passed out then and there. But there was no escape—she simply had to lie there and take it, however the devilish doctor decided to dish it out.
Murphy, for his part, experimented with different techniques, sticking with each one just long enough to get the maximum reaction before switching to the next. He moved his hands up and down the ticklish hollows of Bonnie's underarms, fingers wiggling so quickly they were little more than a blur, then switched to a back-and-forth pattern that sent the hapless blonde into fits of silent laughter. Then he began tracing little circles around the sensitive pits, his suddenly slowed pace allowing Bonnie to gather enough breath for a solid, desperate, “NO MOHOHOHORE...PLEEEEEAAAAAASSSSEHEHEHEHEEH
EHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHA!” before he reached the quivering, super-sensitized centers and dug in for some serious deep-tissue tickling.
Bonnie’s whole world erupted into overwhelming, ticklish sensations as Murphy’s hands mercilessly dug into her, stimulating nerve clusters she hadn’t even known she had. Her aching lungs managed one long, agonized howl before she lapsed again into silent laughter, shaking her head back and forth in desperate futility. The tickling, impossibly, was made even worse by the realization that she no longer had enough breath to beg.
The helpless blonde was teetering on the brink of insanity when Murphy finally abandoned her armpits, shifting his attention instead to the soft, rounded sides of her pert breasts. He concentrated his efforts there, keeping his touches light and teasing until Bonnie had recovered enough to laugh out loud. “No more, no mohohohohre.....stohahahAHAHAHAP!” At that, Murphy began an all-out assault on the girl’s upper body. Bonnie screamed as he raked his fingernails down the sides of her breasts, let them dance along the soft undersides for a while, then began a rapid kneading pattern up the slope, carefully avoiding the swollen aureoles until the poor girl’s nipples were rock-hard in anticipation. Then, with a sadistic grin, he reached up, goosed her armpits, and started the entire pattern over again.
Bonnie alternated between screams, laughter, and incoherent sobs as she tried to ignore the overwhelming sensations the doctor was forcing her to experience. She tried to think about something else, tried to concentrate on her tummy or thighs or anywhere that was not being tickled, but it was no use. She could only hold one thought in her head, running like a mantra through her tickle-tortured brain: Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop....
But it did not stop. Bonnie did not know how much time passed as Murphy’s fingers ran wild across her skin, light then hard, gentle then demanding, turning her underarms and breasts into helpless stretches of ticklish torment. Bonnie screamed, and laughed, and begged, and sobbed, no longer aware of what she was saying or doing, and still the sensations built, striking—god help her—a deep erotic cord within her. Somewhere in the haze of near-madness surrounding her, Bonnie became aware of a growing wetness between her legs, and a throbbing ache within her that was different from the pain in her straining lungs and chest—this was something deeper, primal.
Murphy, meanwhile, reached over to the utility cart, keeping up a steady kneading in Bonnie’s armpit with the other hand as he rummaged through his unseen stock of tickling instruments. He finally came up with something that looked like a fat, tapered paintbrush, which he now held up for Bonnie’s inspection. Bonnie, for her part, was far too preoccupied by the fingers still wriggling in her armpit to pay much attention. Murphy let up just enough to let her catch her breath, which she promptly put to use in another fit of helpless giggles.
“This is a fude, Bonnie,” Murphy explained as if to a child, completely ignoring the constant stream of laughter his still-tickling hand was drawing from his victim, “a Japanese writing brush. Let’s see what happens if we use it a little differently, hmmm?” And he brought the brush to bear over Bonnie’s right nipple. His free hand, meanwhile, was now beating a frenetic tattoo up and down Bonnie’s armpits, switching randomly from one to the other to keep every inch of the ticklish hollows at peak sensitivity. “Plehehehehease,” Bonnie begged. Her neck was becoming sore from trashing. “Nohahahat there! Anehehehehehehewhere but therahahAHAHAHAHAHA.....!”
Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I don’t think you mean that.” He laid the fude down on Bonnie’s belly and reached up to begin an all-out assault on her armpits with both hands. “Would you rather I keep doing this?”
Bonnie’s only reply was a high-pitched scream. In case the doctor didn’t get the message, she shook her head vigorously from side to side, as she was laughing far too hard to talk.
“That’s what I thought,” Murphy said, picking up the fude again and bringing the soft bristles to bear against Bonnie’s swollen right aureole. He began flicking the brush across the deep pink flesh surrounding Bonnie’s aching nipple, never quite touching the hot, erect nub. With his other hand, he began to gently tickle the sides of Bonnie’s breasts, switching off as he had with her armpits, until Bonnie felt as if a thousand tiny worms were wriggling across her torso. She giggled and thrashed, trying to swing her small breasts out of range, but, of course, the restraints made that impossible. Meanwhile, the fude continued its devastating dance around her aureole, stimulating her most sensitive spots with pin-point accuracy that no feather or finger could have achieved. As he had with her armpits, the doctor experimented with a variety of techniques, switching from one breast to the other, first flicking the swollen aureole, then tracing tiny spirals that had Bonnie clamping her eyes shut in ticklish agony. The worst was when he began running the brush in long, ticklish strokes up and down her breasts, barely brushing the sides of her rock-hard nipples with each pass, never quite reaching center. Rich gales of feminine laughter filled the room as Bonnie twitched and yelped under Murphy’s expert touches, caught somewhere between ticklishness and desire as the dancing fude came closer and closer to giving her the direct touch her aching nipples so desperately craved.
Bonnie’s eyes suddenly flew open as she felt the touch she’d so longed for finally connect with her erect nipple, with a sensation like a circuit being closed. She opened her mouth to moan as the soft bristles of the fude swiftly, ever-so lightly brushed across her aching flesh. But something was wrong. The brush was moving faster and faster, flicking her over-sensitized nipple at a ferocious tempo, even as Murphy reached over to the cart for a second fude. With it, he started in on her other breast, tracing tiny, rapid circles along the tip of her nipple like a miniature cyclone. Instead of giving her the pleasure she craved, the little brushes sent ripples of near-painful intensity running through her body...it was too much, it was too fast...it...it...
“IT T-T-TICKLES!” Bonnie cried in dismay, dissolving once again into giggles as the small brushes continued their devilish work. Never in her life had it occurred to her that her sensitive little breasts could be used against her this way, but there was no denying the sensations that now enveloped her, forcing peals of helpless laughter from her already abused throat and lungs. To make matters worse, the whole, horrible experience, against all odds, was making her increasingly, almost painfully horny. She longed more than anything for the doctor to drop his terrible brushes, to roll her hard little nipples between his fingers or take them into his mouth, to chase away the crawling, tickling sensations with some real, solid pleasure. Instead, her arousal served only to force her aching nipples to stand up, naked and vulnerable, before their attackers, super-sensitized and helpless to stop the tickling, teasing touches of the fudes.
Bonnie was flushed and trembling by the time the tickling finally stopped, a light sheen of sweat across her small, toned body. Her nipples still stood at attention, rock-hard and begging, but Bonnie could not bear the thought of having them touched again. Not that way.
Murphy was ignoring her, his attention fixed on the front of the utility cart. Bonnie guessed there was some sort of readout there, a fact that Murphy confirmed as he reached out and pointed at it, muttering, “very nice, very nice indeed...those armpits are off the charts! Definitely a grid worth remembering...”
“Wh-www—“ Bonnie began, her voice hoarse from screaming and her tongue unused to forming words, “what’s the next grid?”
The doctor shot her a brief glance, obviously caught off guard by the question. For a moment Bonnie didn’t think he was going to answer, but he smiled and said, “ribs, belly, buttocks, thighs, and genitals, if you really want to know.”
Bonnie bit her lip. She now knew what this man was capable of, and she knew she couldn’t bear another session of tickling...and yet her exposed pussy twitched hopefully at the images the thought conjured. Frightened by her own reactions, Bonnie lay transfixed, watching with equal measures of dread and anticipation as the doctor positioned himself near her waist, his skillful hands within all-too-easy reach of her splayed thighs.
*********************************************************************
When last we left our intrepid heroine...
“I’m serious!” Bonnie shouted, embarrassed into anger. “Let me out of here!”
Murphy just kept on smiling. “No,” he said, his tone one of cheerful indifference. “Now...grid two.” And he reached out towards her helpless armpits.
*********************************************************************
And now, Part II of our saga....
“NOOOOOOOO!” Bonnie screamed desperately, shaking her head back and forth and tugging uselessly in an effort to free her arms. She was desperate enough that it may have worked, if only there had been something there to free herself from. As it was, though, all her struggles amounted to was a barely noticeable twitching in the muscles of her upper arms, which only made her smooth, stretched armpits look all the more inviting.
“What’s wrong, Bonnie?” Murphy asked mock-solicitously, his hands moving ever closer to the exposed ivory skin of her underarms. “You’re not ticklish there, are you?” He paused, his hands poised barely an inch away from the girl’s skin, and began wiggling his fingers.
Bonnie shook her head, erupting into terrified giggles as her sensitive underarms tingled with ticklish anticipation. “Please, pleheheese, not there, anywhere but there. I can’t take it!”
But Murphy just smiled. “You’re not supposed to be able to take it, dear. That’s why they call it torture.” Ignoring his victim’s agonized scream, he proceeded to lay his fingers ever-so-lightly on the soft skin of Bonnie’s inner arms, moving them in a rapid, dancing pattern right into the heart of the sensitive hollows beneath. “Don’t worry,” he said, barely audible over the desperate, sobbing screams his actions were drawing from his hapless victim, “only twenty minutes to go on this grid.”
Bonnie barely heard him. Every sound, every sensation, every fiber of her being was centered in her trapped, ticklish underarms. She threw her head from side to side, tears streaming down her cheeks as the unbearably light touches kept coming, random, rapid, mercilessly teasing her nerves. Her throat ached from screaming, and her lungs labored for oxygen, but the constant tickling gave her no respite. If it weren’t for the damned recorder, policing her system, she would have passed out then and there. But there was no escape—she simply had to lie there and take it, however the devilish doctor decided to dish it out.
Murphy, for his part, experimented with different techniques, sticking with each one just long enough to get the maximum reaction before switching to the next. He moved his hands up and down the ticklish hollows of Bonnie's underarms, fingers wiggling so quickly they were little more than a blur, then switched to a back-and-forth pattern that sent the hapless blonde into fits of silent laughter. Then he began tracing little circles around the sensitive pits, his suddenly slowed pace allowing Bonnie to gather enough breath for a solid, desperate, “NO MOHOHOHORE...PLEEEEEAAAAAASSSSEHEHEHEHEEH
EHEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHA!” before he reached the quivering, super-sensitized centers and dug in for some serious deep-tissue tickling.
Bonnie’s whole world erupted into overwhelming, ticklish sensations as Murphy’s hands mercilessly dug into her, stimulating nerve clusters she hadn’t even known she had. Her aching lungs managed one long, agonized howl before she lapsed again into silent laughter, shaking her head back and forth in desperate futility. The tickling, impossibly, was made even worse by the realization that she no longer had enough breath to beg.
The helpless blonde was teetering on the brink of insanity when Murphy finally abandoned her armpits, shifting his attention instead to the soft, rounded sides of her pert breasts. He concentrated his efforts there, keeping his touches light and teasing until Bonnie had recovered enough to laugh out loud. “No more, no mohohohohre.....stohahahAHAHAHAP!” At that, Murphy began an all-out assault on the girl’s upper body. Bonnie screamed as he raked his fingernails down the sides of her breasts, let them dance along the soft undersides for a while, then began a rapid kneading pattern up the slope, carefully avoiding the swollen aureoles until the poor girl’s nipples were rock-hard in anticipation. Then, with a sadistic grin, he reached up, goosed her armpits, and started the entire pattern over again.
Bonnie alternated between screams, laughter, and incoherent sobs as she tried to ignore the overwhelming sensations the doctor was forcing her to experience. She tried to think about something else, tried to concentrate on her tummy or thighs or anywhere that was not being tickled, but it was no use. She could only hold one thought in her head, running like a mantra through her tickle-tortured brain: Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop....
But it did not stop. Bonnie did not know how much time passed as Murphy’s fingers ran wild across her skin, light then hard, gentle then demanding, turning her underarms and breasts into helpless stretches of ticklish torment. Bonnie screamed, and laughed, and begged, and sobbed, no longer aware of what she was saying or doing, and still the sensations built, striking—god help her—a deep erotic cord within her. Somewhere in the haze of near-madness surrounding her, Bonnie became aware of a growing wetness between her legs, and a throbbing ache within her that was different from the pain in her straining lungs and chest—this was something deeper, primal.
Murphy, meanwhile, reached over to the utility cart, keeping up a steady kneading in Bonnie’s armpit with the other hand as he rummaged through his unseen stock of tickling instruments. He finally came up with something that looked like a fat, tapered paintbrush, which he now held up for Bonnie’s inspection. Bonnie, for her part, was far too preoccupied by the fingers still wriggling in her armpit to pay much attention. Murphy let up just enough to let her catch her breath, which she promptly put to use in another fit of helpless giggles.
“This is a fude, Bonnie,” Murphy explained as if to a child, completely ignoring the constant stream of laughter his still-tickling hand was drawing from his victim, “a Japanese writing brush. Let’s see what happens if we use it a little differently, hmmm?” And he brought the brush to bear over Bonnie’s right nipple. His free hand, meanwhile, was now beating a frenetic tattoo up and down Bonnie’s armpits, switching randomly from one to the other to keep every inch of the ticklish hollows at peak sensitivity. “Plehehehehease,” Bonnie begged. Her neck was becoming sore from trashing. “Nohahahat there! Anehehehehehehewhere but therahahAHAHAHAHAHA.....!”
Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I don’t think you mean that.” He laid the fude down on Bonnie’s belly and reached up to begin an all-out assault on her armpits with both hands. “Would you rather I keep doing this?”
Bonnie’s only reply was a high-pitched scream. In case the doctor didn’t get the message, she shook her head vigorously from side to side, as she was laughing far too hard to talk.
“That’s what I thought,” Murphy said, picking up the fude again and bringing the soft bristles to bear against Bonnie’s swollen right aureole. He began flicking the brush across the deep pink flesh surrounding Bonnie’s aching nipple, never quite touching the hot, erect nub. With his other hand, he began to gently tickle the sides of Bonnie’s breasts, switching off as he had with her armpits, until Bonnie felt as if a thousand tiny worms were wriggling across her torso. She giggled and thrashed, trying to swing her small breasts out of range, but, of course, the restraints made that impossible. Meanwhile, the fude continued its devastating dance around her aureole, stimulating her most sensitive spots with pin-point accuracy that no feather or finger could have achieved. As he had with her armpits, the doctor experimented with a variety of techniques, switching from one breast to the other, first flicking the swollen aureole, then tracing tiny spirals that had Bonnie clamping her eyes shut in ticklish agony. The worst was when he began running the brush in long, ticklish strokes up and down her breasts, barely brushing the sides of her rock-hard nipples with each pass, never quite reaching center. Rich gales of feminine laughter filled the room as Bonnie twitched and yelped under Murphy’s expert touches, caught somewhere between ticklishness and desire as the dancing fude came closer and closer to giving her the direct touch her aching nipples so desperately craved.
Bonnie’s eyes suddenly flew open as she felt the touch she’d so longed for finally connect with her erect nipple, with a sensation like a circuit being closed. She opened her mouth to moan as the soft bristles of the fude swiftly, ever-so lightly brushed across her aching flesh. But something was wrong. The brush was moving faster and faster, flicking her over-sensitized nipple at a ferocious tempo, even as Murphy reached over to the cart for a second fude. With it, he started in on her other breast, tracing tiny, rapid circles along the tip of her nipple like a miniature cyclone. Instead of giving her the pleasure she craved, the little brushes sent ripples of near-painful intensity running through her body...it was too much, it was too fast...it...it...
“IT T-T-TICKLES!” Bonnie cried in dismay, dissolving once again into giggles as the small brushes continued their devilish work. Never in her life had it occurred to her that her sensitive little breasts could be used against her this way, but there was no denying the sensations that now enveloped her, forcing peals of helpless laughter from her already abused throat and lungs. To make matters worse, the whole, horrible experience, against all odds, was making her increasingly, almost painfully horny. She longed more than anything for the doctor to drop his terrible brushes, to roll her hard little nipples between his fingers or take them into his mouth, to chase away the crawling, tickling sensations with some real, solid pleasure. Instead, her arousal served only to force her aching nipples to stand up, naked and vulnerable, before their attackers, super-sensitized and helpless to stop the tickling, teasing touches of the fudes.
Bonnie was flushed and trembling by the time the tickling finally stopped, a light sheen of sweat across her small, toned body. Her nipples still stood at attention, rock-hard and begging, but Bonnie could not bear the thought of having them touched again. Not that way.
Murphy was ignoring her, his attention fixed on the front of the utility cart. Bonnie guessed there was some sort of readout there, a fact that Murphy confirmed as he reached out and pointed at it, muttering, “very nice, very nice indeed...those armpits are off the charts! Definitely a grid worth remembering...”
“Wh-www—“ Bonnie began, her voice hoarse from screaming and her tongue unused to forming words, “what’s the next grid?”
The doctor shot her a brief glance, obviously caught off guard by the question. For a moment Bonnie didn’t think he was going to answer, but he smiled and said, “ribs, belly, buttocks, thighs, and genitals, if you really want to know.”
Bonnie bit her lip. She now knew what this man was capable of, and she knew she couldn’t bear another session of tickling...and yet her exposed pussy twitched hopefully at the images the thought conjured. Frightened by her own reactions, Bonnie lay transfixed, watching with equal measures of dread and anticipation as the doctor positioned himself near her waist, his skillful hands within all-too-easy reach of her splayed thighs.
