I dug into my archives...no actually, it was the archives of my archives and found some very old stories that I called the Pulp Fiction Series.
I apologize in advance for the silliness and very rough writing style. I think I was still trying to find my writer's voice and decided to do a series of fun yarns with tickling as the theme.
I hope you can enjoy them as fun diversions. They were probably written in the 90s.
************************
NOTE: This was in a very old format and I had trouble even opening it. So if the formatting looks weird blame age.
************************
Pulp Tickle Fiction
CHRISTY
Max Speer
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 shit. 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 own 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 shit 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."
I apologize in advance for the silliness and very rough writing style. I think I was still trying to find my writer's voice and decided to do a series of fun yarns with tickling as the theme.
I hope you can enjoy them as fun diversions. They were probably written in the 90s.
************************
NOTE: This was in a very old format and I had trouble even opening it. So if the formatting looks weird blame age.
************************
Pulp Tickle Fiction
CHRISTY
Max Speer
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 shit. 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 own 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 shit 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."