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CUCKLED: A Tickling Story (m/mf & m/f)

TamiraK

TMF Poster
Joined
Jul 12, 2020
Messages
122
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18
CUCKLED: A Tickling Story
by Tamira K.

Some definitions

tickle
VERB
1. to touch, stroke, or poke (a person, part of the body, etc) so as to produce pleasure, laughter, or a twitching sensation

cuckold
NOUN
1. a man whose spouse has committed adultery, often regarded as an object of scorn
VERB
2. (transitive) to make a cuckold of

cuckle
VERB
1. (niche) to tickle another man's spouse or girlfriend, with or without the informed consent of the man or his partner. Most commonly acknowledged among tickling fetishists



PART I

Chapter 1

‘What did you think?’ Anthony Clarke asked his wife, Amy, as they left Screen 7 of their local cinema with their arms around each other. Because he was taller than the average Englishman and she was petite, this meant: his arm around her shoulder and her hugging tightly to his waist.

‘I liked it. It was funny…’

‘Is there a “but” coming?’

But, it would have been better if those two blokes behind us weren’t acting like idiots all the way through.’

‘Yeah, I know—’ He was cut short as the two blokes pushed past Amy.

‘Oi!’ she shouted.

They stopped and turned. ‘“Oi,” what?’ said the first, who was dressed in double-denim.

‘There’s enough room! You don’t have to push past me!’ said Amy.

‘We just heard you call us idiots,’ said the second, who wore an ill-fitting baseball cap and a typically grotty expression. ‘Do you know who we are?’

‘A couple of arseholes with shit fashion sense?’ said Amy.

The blokes stepped forward.

‘Easy…’ said Anthony, moving between them, and not a moment too soon from Amy’s perspective. He towered over them with his athletic physique as Amy hoped he would snap them both like lolly sticks.

‘What you gotta say about it?’ said Double-Denim. Other cinema-goers rubbernecked as they passed.

‘If your big, square head wasn’t blocking the view, we’d have been able to see the film,’ said Grot. ‘So, put a muzzle on your woman before she gets you messed up!’

Anthony said nothing. An unpredictable silence from the blokes was accompanied by looks of lingering contempt.

‘Thought so,’ said Grot with a sneer Amy craved to see slapped from his face. Instead, the blokes sauntered away, laughing.

Anthony turned to Amy with a tight-lipped shrug. He put his arm around her and they continued to walk out of the cinema and into the warm July evening. He had a futile hope that the look in her eyes would be gone by the time they got home. Instead, as they reached the car, Amy couldn’t contain herself.

‘What happened there?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you let them get away with that?’

‘What was I going to do? Fight them?’

Amy waited for him to answer his own question.

‘I’m just glad they didn’t get racial,’ he said.

‘You mean, if they’d insulted you for being black, you’d have kicked off, but they can tell you to “muzzle me” and you’re alright with it?’

‘Baby, it’s over. Sorted without anyone getting hurt too.’

She couldn’t argue with this point; obviously she didn’t want him to get hurt in a fight, but she knew the decision to not tell the blokes to piss off was more to do with mousiness than a deliberate placating tactic.

She remained quiet all the way home. In the five years since they met, this was the first time they had encountered a serious confrontation. Yes, they received unsurprising scowls from the usual basket of individuals who had some inexplicable issue with seeing a black man and a white woman in love, but nothing had ever been said directly to them. She partly attributed this to Anthony’s height and build, and assumed—incorrectly, it seemed—that if any trouble ever occurred he would be more than capable of standing up for her.

Now she was not so sure and felt guilty for being a bit less attracted to him because of it.


Chapter 2

Some weeks later Anthony was experiencing a period of unease and couldn’t remember a time when he felt this way so consistently.

Three years ago, when he asked, ‘Will you marry me?’ Amy had responded with delight and an unequivocal “Yes!” and this evening his question had been, ‘So, when do you want to start trying for a kid?’

To his mind, the question and the home-cooked, candlelit dinner over which he asked it, was the most romantic moment he had concocted since the proposal. However, this time Amy responded by taking a drink of wine, then saying, ’I hadn’t really thought about it.’

She talked about children often while they were dating to ensure they were both on the same page, but had stopped mentioning them recently. This added to Anthony’s feeling of unease and it caused him to drop the topic. If she had something bad to say, he didn’t want to hear it.

At one point during the past winter Anthony realised that he had attained the life to which he always aspired. Amy asked what he wanted for his 28th birthday and he couldn’t think of a single thing. He didn’t want or need to accumulate any more “stuff”. He had just been made marketing director at London’s top luxury furniture company; they had two cars; a detached three-bedroom house in a leafy Berkshire village; and enough spare money at the end of the month to help his mother. However, the one thing in his life he treasured above all else was Amy – his perfect woman. Not just because of her alluring personality and natural beauty, but also because he had a thing for older women. Admittedly, she was only three years older, but her class and maturity shone through.

They met when Amy was working as a sales manager in the beauty division of upmarket department store Pemberton’s in London’s Knightsbridge. Her attention was captured the moment she saw him. He was attending a sales meeting with some colleagues and the girls in her department congregated by her side to gawp at him, but the smile he gave was directed exclusively at her. Sure enough, when his meeting was over, he found her and gave her his number. She played it extra cool and cut the conversation short to minimise the chances of him detecting how flustered she was. They went on a date later that week and within two years they were married.

And now, as they continued the meal, he contemplated what might have changed. He trusted her integrity – she never gave an inch to any other man; once she was his, she was his, and he knew she wasn’t cheating on him. Her poise, beauty and vibrant sunset-blonde curls always drew looks from men but Anthony didn’t care. In fact, he liked it.

Then the voice of reason trotted up his shoulder and slapped him on the head – he needed to stop the denial of what he knew to be true: Amy’s attitude had changed the night of the cinema confrontation. He needed to prove to her that he was a “real man” and a fleeting thought of organising a way to save her from an attacker was dismissed as soon as it arrived – that would definitely go wrong. She would probably kill the guy before he got the chance to step in!

He mulled over all the ways he could think of to demonstrate his alphaness until he landed upon one idea that might just work…


Chapter 3

It was 1:30pm on Friday when Amy got on the train at Waterloo. She had some holiday time owed to her and felt like an afternoon at home. As soon as Anthony heard this he said he would also be home so they could do something together. She smiled in response but her smiles were losing their conviction.

She arrived home to hear the sound of Anthony’s sexy R&B Spotify compilation playing somewhere in the house. ‘Anthony?’ she called.

There was no response.

‘Anthony?’ she said, louder.

‘Come upstairs,’ he called back, without his usual gentle tone.

Amy didn’t appreciate it. ‘Please!’ she said, before noticing rose petals scattered in a trail that lead up to the bedroom. She sighed. For a moment she hoped he would think the sigh was due to how sweet he was rather than her not being in the mood for lovey-dovey romance, but when she reached the bedroom her mouth dropped at the sight before her: Anthony stood at the side of the bed dressed only in white silk boxer shorts, white sports socks and a silver masquerade eye mask. His skin glistened, showing off his pecs and abs, which were sculpted to perfection – he had obviously been working out before she arrived. In his hand he held a black riding crop and on the bedroom chest of drawers lay a selection of leather restraints. He seemed to swell with pride at how pleasantly surprised she appeared, but didn’t smile back and so maintained a look of control.

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

Amy was instantly turned on.

She slowly took off her jacket and blouse and dropped them on the landing floor. She then turned her back to him and, keeping her legs straight, slid her skirt from her waist to the floor. Anthony swallowed but tried to disguise it. Amy was wearing the black hold-up stockings he liked; the pair with the seams that ran down the back of each leg.

She turned and strutted towards him in a very seductive manner. He had to lick his lips. He was tempted to just throw her on the bed and make love to her straight away but resolved to stick to his original plan.

She reached back to unclip her bra.

‘No,’ he said.

‘No?’ she repeated, with additional naughty girl overtones.

‘Keep your bra, panties, stockings and shoes on. Get on the bed.’

Amy’s nose twitched — she recognised the spark of attraction that she felt in their first few years together. ‘You want me on my back or my front... Sir?’

‘On your back to begin with. Spread out your arms and legs.’

Amy happily complied. Anthony put down the crop and took his time wrapping the soft leather cuffs firmly around her wrists and ankles. He then padlocked each one to the D-hooks at all four corners of a sub-mattress restraint kit that he had previously secured in place. He pulled at the fastening attached to her right wrist. It yanked her arm swiftly into the mattress.

‘Woo!’ she said in surprise.

His instinct was to ask if she was okay, but he saw she was amused and so reached down and took his time pulling the fastening the strap of her right ankle. He maintained eye contact as he did so and saw the smouldering appreciation in her eyes. He had got this very right!

He repeated the action on her left ankle, then her left wrist, and stood back to enjoy his handiwork: his beautiful blonde bride, three years older than him, in the sexiest underwear and high heels, totally turned on and tied so securely that she might leave an X-shaped indent in the mattress.

Amy’s gaze was fixated on the outline of his erection in the silk boxers and how it seemed to pulse in time to his heartbeat.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Sir,’ she said, looking up at him and fidgeting in anticipation of what he had in store. ‘What are you going to do now—?’

A loud smash downstairs made them both jump. They looked at one another.

‘What was that?’ said Amy.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Untie me.’

‘Wait.’

‘Anthony!’

‘Shh!’ he whispered. There were sounds of movement downstairs. He went out of the bedroom and picked up a vase from the landing dresser.

‘Anthony!’ she whispered again.

He leaned back into the room and put his finger to his lips, then snuck over to the stairs. The sounds of movement had stopped. His heart was pounding and his erection had gone. He hoped the noises had been caused by a bird or something that had fallen down the chimney shaft but, of course, a bird wouldn’t explain a broken window. Then he remembered what he was wearing. He took off the mask and when he looked again, two skinny young white men—one covered with pock scars and one wearing a black beanie hat—were approaching the bottom of the stairs. They saw him. All froze.

Anthony gripped the vase, but noticed both men held long crowbars.

‘Get the hell out my house!’ he shouted as he raised the vase.

The young men mirrored his action with the crowbars. Anthony slung the vase and they flinched as it sailed between them and shattered against the front door. He raced back to the bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Amy was terrified, ‘What’s going on?!’

‘Burglars,’ he said and rushed for his phone.

The door shook with loud thuds that caused Amy to shriek. Anthony watched the door bend in its frame as he dialled 9-9-9. ‘Open the door, man!’ shouted one of the burglars.

‘Get me out of here!’ said Amy, pulling at the restraints.

Anthony dithered and the door splintered open. The two young men were shocked at the sight before them.

‘Put the phone down!’ said Pock, pointing his crowbar at Anthony. Anthony’s hesitation prompted him to aim the crowbar at Amy instead.

‘Baby…!’ she said, alarmed.

Anthony lowered the phone. As a faint voice said, ‘Emergency. Which service…?’ he hung up.

‘Good,’ said Pock, ‘Now sit down!’ he pointed to a wave-shaped powder blue leather chaise longue by the window. Anthony did as he was told. ‘Now, my mate is going to keep an eye on her. If you move, he’s going to reshape her legs with the crowbar, get it?’

Anthony nodded.

Pock put down his crowbar and spotted a selection of leather restraints – two wrist cuffs, two ankle cuffs and a waist restraint. He immediately picked them up and went over to chaise longue. ‘Put your legs up. Sit on it properly,’ said Pock.

Anthony and Amy shared a look – regret in his eyes; fear and frustration in hers.

Pock slung the waist restraint around the lower end of the chaise longue, weaving it between the steel supports of the chair and and pulling it tight over Anthony’s kneecaps. He then put the wrist restraints on him, pulled some cables from the back of the bedroom TV and tied each wrist securely behind the chair to the strong rear support of the frame. As an extra measure, he did the same with the final set of ankle restraints, tying the D-rings together and securing them to the legs of the chair.

Pock stood up and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His demeanour changed. ‘I’m really sorry about this. You’re not usually home at this time.’

Beanie looked similarly apologetic, ‘We don’t wanna hurt you, we just need money. If you have some, tell us where it is and we will just go.’

Amy was incredulous, ‘Oh, sure! Seeing as you asked nicely…!’

‘Amy—’ said Anthony, trying to calm her.

‘What!?’ she snapped at him. ‘Get the hell out of my house!’ she shouted at the men.

Beanie and Pock began to search the room. The first drawer Beanie opened was filled with Amy’s underwear. He accidentally pulled it out too far, spilling g-strings, brassieres and hosiery onto the floor.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Amy exclaimed.

‘Look,’ said Anthony, ‘There’s a safe in the cupboard—’

‘You’re giving them our money?!’ cried Amy.

‘They’re going to find it anyway, we may as well.’

Pock went to the cupboard and found the safe hidden behind Amy’s shoe boxes. ‘What’s the code?’ he asked.

‘9-8-7-5-4-3-6,’ said Anthony.

Amy was seething. Pock tapped in the code and the safe sprang open. Two piles of cash sat amongst their passports, some jewellery and Anthony’s Rolex. ‘Don’t you dare touch my grandmother’s earrings!’ said Amy.

‘I won’t,’ said Pock.

‘We wouldn’t do this unless we had a choice,’ said Beanie. ‘Is this all of it?’

Anthony indicated his wallet on the dresser. Beanie stepped over and pulled out £100. The young men went to leave, ‘Thank you for this,’ said Pock. ‘We’re going to have to leave you tied up. And sorry for interrupting…whatever you were doing.’

The young men trudged down the stairs, avoiding the broken vase, and left. Anthony knew Amy was looking at him and so focussed on appearing to be listening intently for something important.

‘They’re gone,’ he said, with the conviction of an expert tracker from the Wild West.

Amy didn’t respond.

Anthony mustered the courage to look at her. She was watching him with an expression that could indicate in any one of a thousand thoughts – none of them good.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

She turned away. They sat in uncomfortable silence.

Finally Anthony spoke again, ‘We should—‘

‘It’s a shame they didn’t leave one of your wrists untied,’ Amy snapped. ‘You could have wanked them off before they left!’

This insult was almost too much for Anthony, but he knew that showing visible signs of upset would be the last straw for her.

I knew none of this at the time…


PART II

Chapter 4

My name is… Actually, forget it. If you’ve been to London, you may have seen me but I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t remember my face, so why tell you my name?

It was an overcast afternoon when I got on the outbound train at Waterloo station. I maintained an apologetic smile as I squeezed my way between commuters and wedged myself into the only available space; under the armpit of an Eastern-European man in paint-spattered overalls.

For the 876th time I contemplated how much I wanted to stop doing this journey, when my eye was caught by some familiar blonde curls. I felt a rush of excitement as I recognised Amy Sergeant—or Amy Whatever-her-name-was-since-she-got-married—sitting in the middle of the carriage! She was gazing out the window with the effortless pout I knew so well. The last time I saw her at Pemberton’s was around three years ago but since then she had gained signs of physical maturity that only made her even more sexy.

Back then I was (and I still am) a merchandise manager at Pemberton’s. When I could stand on the shop floor and watch her at work it felt like rays of sunshine parting the clouds of daily drudgery.

I’m not a stalker, you understand; I just can’t help but admire beauty. And I don’t objectify. It’s not like I didn’t try to connect with Amy on a social level, but on the couple of occasions I struck up a conversation with her, she mistook me for a customer. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a line-up of strangers even though we worked in the same building for several years, but I can’t blame her – Pemberton’s is a very busy store and the company Christmas parties are hectic events. There are probably people who work there who even I wouldn’t recognise!

She was one of several attractive young women in the beauty department but many things about her flicked my switch the most. I think I was first attracted by her natural beauty. They say nobody is perfect, but I don’t remember ever seeing someone as objectively immaculate who wasn’t in magazines or on television. Plus, she was the only woman in the beauty department who resisted cosmetic injections or surgeries, and who didn’t take makeup advice from Ronald McDonald. But the thing that stimulated my interest the most was the way she casually dangled a high heel from her toes whenever she sat and consulted with a customer.

I have to admit I have a foot fetish and, at lunchtimes in Hyde Park, I would often sit in view of her favourite spot, especially on warm summer days when there was a greater chance of her sitting on the grass and slipping off her shoes completely. I never worked up the courage to get too close, but her feet and ankles looked indescribably appealing even from a distance. Not only did they excite my foot fetish, they also fanned the flames of the other fetish I have that is even stronger: my tickling fetish.

If I had managed to befriend her, lunchtimes in the park would have given the perfect opportunity to give her the quick sole-stroke test. I often played over the whole, “Oh! So you’re ticklish, are you…!?” scenario in my mind and the fun that could ensue thereafter.

Unfortunately, I’m so used to letting tickle porn do the work for me that my imagination for how she might react never really felt convincing. Also, the problems with this plan were twofold: one, I am too shy to make such a move and, two, I am married.

In the decades since I began work at Pemberton’s, the HR department became highly imperious regarding staff interactions and it would’ve been just my luck to do such a thing, have it blow up out of all proportion and before you knew it: divorce. I love and worship my wife, Catherine. I always have done. And I never want to risk my marriage or my family.

The thing is, we got married at a time before the internet and, therefore, before fetish communities were commonplace. I can’t understate how much tickling occupies my thoughts. I once considered that if I drew a pie chart of my collective topics of idle contemplation throughout life, tickling would occupy at least 75% of the pie. In my younger days nobody else ever mentioned tickling or indicated it was part of their regular sexual activities so I believed myself to be abnormal, which contributed to a lack of confidence. Unfortunately, when tickling is your main interest, the one thing you need is a partner, but I was far from being a Casanova and spent most of my youth as a singleton. I used to think that I had no physical appeal. At least, it was the conclusion I drew as to why no girl looked at me twice. I’ve since learnt a woman’s attraction to men is more based on charisma, not that I have charisma in droves either.

Therefore, it’s not really surprising that when the voluptuous 18-year-old Catherine Smedley entered my life and showed interest in me I was instantly smitten. I think she was as drawn to my stability and level of independence as I was to her unconventional good looks – from her mother she inherited the cheekbones and button nose of a mediterranean beauty, and from her father she inherited the sturdy jaw that made him a formidable boxer. That said, I am someone who is drawn to quirky imperfections and so, to me, she is flawless. Particularly as—similar to several beautiful actress—she wears her jawline with exquisite femininity and it gives her the brightest of toothy smiles, which melts my heart every time.

Plus, I find her overwhelmingly sexy. The finest designers in the world equipped with the latest technology and most intricate of equipment could not design a body that fits more perfectly in my arms, and I’m very fortunate she keeps it under wraps! She is a free spirit and generally wears clothes that match the description: long and flowing. As such, she doesn’t attract the staring eyes of the general male population. It’s only when we’re on holiday and she wears a swimming costume that shows off her yoga-toned body that I witness so many men eyeing her up and hoping they get a reciprocal glance. Of course, she never gives one.

When Catherine and I met it was obvious we had similar interests – we viewed relationships in the same way, shared a sense of humour, provided comfort and support to one another, balanced each other’s shortcomings and, most importantly, Catherine was extremely ticklish!

And so I couldn’t help it – I asked her to marry me and, to my delight, she accepted.

Unfortunately, there has always been one significant blemish on the jigsaw: Catherine hates to be tickled. I discovered this fairly early on in our relationship. The first time I prodded her waist she reacted in a way I could only previously fantasise about — she spasmed and giggled with a smile that lit up the room. It was the single most erotic moment I had ever experienced and I still pleasure myself to the memory twenty-two years later.

However, I’ve been forced to acknowledge that the positivity of her response was, in large part, due to the flirtatious nature of our early courtship. Since then, whenever I have prodded her or grabbed her from behind or stroked the sole of her foot on a quest to emulate that first occasion, she reacted with increasing annoyance until one day she yelled at me, ‘Don’t do that! How many times do I have to say the same thing!? I don’t like being tickled!

We never raise our voices to one another and so having my favourite erotic word spat at me by the woman I adore was such a jarring incident that it finally conveyed the message. I’ve never tickled her since. In fact, I haven’t so much as poked her in the waist in over a decade. She permitted, and even enjoyed, me paying attention to her divine feet as we made love, but I recognised that, ensnared by love and enraptured by the magical swirls of romance, my youthful impatience to propose overlooked how important it would be for me to only settle down with someone who entertained tickling.

So, secured into a life with a wife and two children, I resigned myself to taking mental snapshots of the women who passed by for use in fantasy scenarios whenever I got the bathroom to myself. A regular star of these fantasies was Amy Sergeant, although it frustrated me that I had no clue as to how she would react to being tickled, if at all!

One day, having not seen Amy for a couple of weeks, I asked her co-worker if she was on holiday. ‘No, she’s left,’ the girl replied before continuing to stock a cupboard with make-up, oblivious to the impact this news had on me.

‘Where has she gone?’ I asked, as casually as possible.

Exasperated by the Spanish Inquisition of a second question, the girl replied, ‘Nowhere yet. She’s on her honeymoon right now.’ She then smirked, ‘Why do you ask, Mr—?’

‘No reason,’ I said and walked away, embarrassed at being caught out and flushed with irrational jealousy.

I had occasionally seen Amy’s boyfriend meet her from work, and occasionally in the park with her at lunchtime. I had hoped he was transient and I felt the wind leave my sails the day I spotted her engagement ring. Still, I clung to the hope that they would break up. I knew it was an unpleasant and childish side-effect of envy and I wasn’t about to leave Catherine and the kids, but if I couldn’t have Amy I didn’t want anyone else to have her.


Chapter 5

As the train left Waterloo, I craned my neck over the other passengers to see if there was still a wedding ring on Amy’s finger, but her hands were folded on her lap, covering the answer.

Each stop lessened the number of people on the train until I was able to take a seat. I pretended to read my book but my eyes were almost constantly on her. If she looked at me and there was a smile of recognition, I planned to smile back and coolly spark up a conversation along the lines of, “Hi, have we met before? … Yeah, I recognise you too … I never forget a pretty face… Ahh, you’re cute when you’re embarrassed…” At least, that was the ideal scenario, but it was also wishful thinking because I knew my voice-box would wobble like the top vibrato setting on a Blackpool pier Hammond organ.

She reached into her handbag for lip moisturiser and her eyes met mine. My heart flipped like a pancake and I began to twist my lips into a smile that had no earthly hope of being “cool”. However, I needn’t have bothered due to the distinct lack of recognition and the fleeting disinterest that young, gym-fit, modelesque women naturally give to sheets of middle-aged magnolia wallpaper.

And, yes, she still wore a wedding ring.

With each passing station, I felt happy that Amy didn’t get off. As the train pulled into my home station of Virginia Water, I hoped she would get ready to disembark. She didn’t.

My phone received a text:

From Catherine:
Dont forget your’re coking tonigth!
:) xxx


The train stopped and the doors opened. Residents of Virginia Water alighted from the train and I found, to my surprise, that I wasn’t one of them. I wondered how much further I would be travelling. I was given the answer two stops later as we approached Sunningdale and Amy prepared to disembark. I waited a moment then nonchalantly headed for the second set of doors.

I maintained a discreet distance as I followed her down some pleasant and reasonably quiet village streets; my eyes glued to her shapely ankles. I noticed that she maintained an air of annoyance even though she was on an empty street, which I previously assumed was her preemptive strike against the daily barrage of unwanted male attention.

I did wonder what excuse I would give to Catherine if she drove past with the kids and saw me. “I just felt like a walk, honey. … Oh, am I heading away from our house…?” I couldn’t decide whether the fact that I’d never done such a thing in twenty-two years made it a more or less plausible excuse.

Amy crossed the road. I slowed as she entered the gravel-covered driveway of a white-fronted house with a shiny new Mercedes outside.

As she went indoors a warmth grew inside me because I had a new insight into her life but this was short-lived and overshadowed by a pang of resentment towards the man who was sharing this life with her.

Over the subsequent months my train journeys were as they had always previously been, except with the additional daily disappointment of not coinciding with Amy again. By means of compensation, once or twice a week I found myself diverting past her house simply to absorb some sense of connection with her.

It was the day of the twins’ 11th birthday when I got off the train at Sunningdale and it struck me as to how tragic it was to be making this trip rather than spending an additional couple of hours with my son and daughter. As a sufficiently happily married father of two, I finally realised I needed to stop this obsessional behaviour and devote my time to my loving family. It was a long overdue moment of maturation and I resolved that this would be the last time I would make this detour so I’d better enjoy it and then head on home.

But, as I passed Amy’s house, I noticed that the front door was ajar…


Chapter 6

I stood watching the house for about ten minutes and the only activity on the street came from starlings flitting between the trees.

Was the latch broken? Had the house been burgled? Perhaps Amy or her husband just forgot to close the door properly. “They shouldn’t leave the door open, though,” I thought, “anyone could pass by.” I convinced myself that it was my civic duty to go over, perhaps even look inside, and ensure everything was hunky-dory.

As soon as I stepped onto the gravel, the peaceful sounds of nature were disrupted by a shout from indoors. It was an angry female voice – Amy’s voice. I didn’t catch the first part of what she said but the second was very clear: ‘You could have wanked them off before they left!’

I trod as quietly as possible across the gravel, enticed by the thought that I could snoop on some trouble in paradise.

‘What did you want me to do?’ said Amy’s husband.

‘Perhaps not telling them where our money was and what the code to the safe is would be a start!’

‘And what if they started hurting you to get it?’

‘They weren’t going to hurt either of us! They were pathetic boys, not Russian interrogators, Anthony!’

‘You wanted me to put faith in that!? They had a bloody crowbar aimed at you! Don’t tell me you didn’t think they could hurt you!’

I peeked inside the front door and saw a smashed vase on the floor.

‘Why couldn’t you have released me when you had the chance?’ shouted Amy.

‘There wasn’t time–’

‘More to the point, why couldn’t you fight them instead of leading them straight to me? I could have beaten the shit out of those two on my own if I wasn’t tied to the bloody bed!

A cold thrill pulsed from my heart, throughout my body and I froze. This was followed by the thought that I needed to act quickly; if the neighbours saw a stranger earwigging at the front door there would be questions to answer.

I edged the door open and went inside, taking care not to disturb the broken glass. The air had a hint of sweet vanilla and roses.

‘…and now you’re tied up too!’ There was a sardonic chuckle in Amy’s last statement. I felt my mouth drop open and had to wonder if I was in a dream. All the reasons for why I shouldn’t be sneaking into a house uninvited fell away.

I needed to hear more but didn’t want any passing do-gooder to intrude on the situation so, as Anthony and Amy continued to argue, I went to gently close the front door but it jammed. I increased the pressure with no effect. As I added more pressure, I looked down and saw a curve of the broken vase hooked under the door, but before I could take the pressure off, the fragment snapped and the door slammed shut.

I cringed and the house fell silent.

‘Who’s that?’ shouted Anthony, ‘Is someone down there?’

I panicked and answered, ’Um, yes! I heard shouting and the door was open. Is everything okay?’

There was a brief murmured confab upstairs, which ended with Amy snapping, ‘What choice do we have?!’

Anthony sighed. ‘We’re upstairs in the bedroom. We could use your help!’

‘Okay…’ I said. I followed a trail of well-trodden rose petals up the stairs until I could see into the bedroom at an angle that kept me hidden. As I edged forward the side of the bed came into view along with Amy’s restrained wrist and ankle.

‘Hello? Are you there?’ she said, impatiently, but occurred to me: What if she recognised me? Should I just turn and leave? And, as this became the most rational option, I saw Amy’s ankle tug at the restraint and I realised – she really couldn’t move.


Chapter 7

I popped my head into the bedroom and was agog to see Amy tied, spread-eagle to the bed in just her underwear, stockings and high heels. Her handsome, athletic husband was strapped to a chaise longue in just his boxer shorts and socks. I could feel my blood pumping all the way to my fingertips.

Sexy underwear was strewn all over the floor. I watched Amy for any signs of recognition. There were none.

‘Hi…’ said Anthony, acknowledging the bizarreness of the situation.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘We got burgled. They tied us up and left.’

‘Oh, that’s horrible!’ I said with genuine concern, ‘Did they hurt you?’

‘Only our pride,’ said Amy, clearly still pissed off.

‘Okay. What can I do?’

‘Erm, untying us would be great!’ she said.

I detected sarcasm. This was confirmed by the disapproving look Anthony gave her. Amy dismissed him with a, ‘Psh.’

‘Is there a key to these padlocks?’ I asked.

‘Yes. In the dresser,’ said Anthony.

I dropped my coat onto a chair and found a bunch of four small keys. I stepped back to Amy and knelt at her right ankle. My courage to do anything other than release her was waning. So, as she was going to be free in 30 seconds, I permitted myself the time to appreciate being closer to her than I had ever been before and would ever be again.

My face hovered inches from her ankle. Evidently this was for a little too long because Amy was irritated to see me staring at her legs rather than unlocking her. ‘Are you going to get me out of here or just eye me up?’ she said.

Heat radiated across my face and I looked sideways at Anthony. ‘Perhaps you can just untie me and I’ll untie her,’ he said.

I’d been caught-out but his condescending tone irritated me. I always had the impression he was a mild-mannered guy but he clearly didn’t like the thought of me gawking at his wife. Yes, I glanced at Amy, but he was half my age and I felt I should be given a bit more respect by the both of them, particularly as I was doing a good deed for them and, if I was any other type of person, I could do a lot more than just look.

With my eyes focussed on the carpet I slunk over to him and knelt at his feet. They looked really big and wide in his sports socks. The restraints were tied really tight with some kind of cable. The D-rings were pulled together, making the cable and the buckles difficult to reach and as I wriggled my fingers between his ankles to get to the buckles, I noticed his legs twitch.

A strange tingle of excitement washed through the pit of my stomach.

Even though I’m not gay, or even bisexual, over the years I have grown more and more curious to watch videos of men being tickled. When I first saw one by accident—yes, it was by accident; I was watching videos and clicked on the wrong thumbnail—I was almost physically repulsed, but somehow my curiosity was piqued. Soon afterwards I found myself deliberately searching for men being tickled and watched them with a disapproving snarl on my face, as if to prove to the invisible audience in the room that I wasn’t really into it. Nowadays, whenever Catherine and the kids are out, I’m just as likely to watch men getting tickled as I am to watch women, and the snarl has gone.

All that said, it only existed in my fantasy world and I honestly hadn’t ever considered what it would be like to personally tickle a man, not least because there had to be a degree of attraction for me to want to tickle someone – an attraction that I had only ever felt for women. But in that moment, with tall, handsome Anthony bare-chested, defenceless and his big feet right next to my hands, I became unexpectedly aroused.

These thoughts all occurred in less than a second and I deliberately stroked his ankle again. He twitched again. It was more obvious this time. I quickly checked out his face. He was watching me, unaware that a tickling fetishist was kneeling right next to his bound feet.

And now I knew he was ticklish.

He looked me in the eye and I realised my nefarious thoughts were broadcast onto my face.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘You’re tied really tight,’ I said. ‘These cables won’t loosen.’

‘Untie my hands. I’ll do it.’

I shuffled across the carpet on my knees, checking out his strong legs and defined torso as I went. I was glad to have the back of the chaise longue to hide behind because I had an erection that was fighting with my underwear.

I saw his wrist restraints were also tied by an electrical cable to the chair, but they seemed less secure than the ankles. I feigned an attempt to untie them as I actually secured them further. While logic was telling me to let them go, the straining in my pants stimulated my courage and libido simultaneously and the little voice inside me said that if I didn’t do it immediately, I never would.

‘These cables are really tight,’ I said.

‘You can’t undo them?’ said Anthony.

‘For God’s sake, what are they? Two pound fifty? We’ll buy more! Just get scissors and cut them!’ said Amy.

‘No, wait, I think I can do it,’ I said and gripped the side of the chair, as though holding it in place. My aim was to touch Anthony’s ribs as I did so but he wasn’t close enough. I made more noises of struggling to get the cables undone as I adjusted my position and let my hand wander round the front of the chaise longue. I felt the warmth from his body and knew I was close.

I retracted my hand a little so that it wouldn’t look obvious. ‘I’m getting there,’ I said. Then I put my hand further than it had been before and felt soft muscle.

‘Ouwp!’ yelped Anthony.

I peered from behind the chair. ‘Sorry, did I get you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh,’ I paused. My heart was pounding in my chest. ‘That was a funny noise. Where did I get you? Here?’ I said and prodded his lower ribs.

He recoiled and tensed up. A smile broke on his lips, ‘Yeah, man. Don’t do that.’

‘A little ticklish, are we?’ I said. My mouth was dry.

‘Yeah. Untie me, man.’

‘If that’s the case, I’m not sure if I should!’ I tried to adopt the casual demeanour of the quintessential evil ticklers in all the stories I’d read online, but as I got to my feet my voice wobbled like a warped vinyl record. ‘As you obviously both enjoy BDSM, perhaps you need to experience it for real, rather than role playing the scene.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Anthony.


Chapter 8

I didn’t answer, mostly because all my efforts were going into controlling the facial ticks that were subverting my cool, calm grin. I went over to the bed; my erection leading me to Amy like a branch of witch hazel being magnetised towards a subterranean lake. She looked up at me but said nothing. I suspect my unintentionally erratic visage looked more scary than anyone who actually managed to fit the stereotypical movie-villain mould.

I swallowed, ‘Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘Anthony…!’ Amy said, concerned.

‘No, you can call me “Sir”,’ I said.

‘Get away from her, man!’ said Anthony, tugging at his bonds.

I turned to him. ‘I said: don’t be scared! I just want to know if Amy is sensitive in the same way you are…’

My voice was now under control but my heart was thumping in my ears as I knelt on the bed and reached a hand towards Amy’s beautifully toned waist. I heard her call her husband’s name again but I was lost in a trance. This was going to be the moment. She instinctively coiled away, a look of fear in her eyes. When she had moved as far as the restraints permitted, my hand closed in on her side.

Threats and shouts from Anthony were wrapped in cotton wool as I took hold of Amy’s waist and began to waggle my fingertips into the muscle.

She metamorphosed through a range of expressions that were nothing short of divine: she tried to frown at me but couldn’t keep it up; then she attempted a exaggerated look of patronising bewilderment; but quickly lost control and, as my touch infiltrated her defences; a smirk spread across her lips.

‘D-don’t do that!’ she chortled. From the tone of her voice I got the impression that her amusement was due, in part, to an enjoyment of the sensation.

She wriggled and writhed, obviously trying to limit her reactions. I shuffled closer on the bed and grabbed both sides of her waist at once. She went from restrained giggles to a wide-eyed bawl of laughter, her head rising up in surprise as she pulled against the wrist restraints.

Amy Sergeant was ticklish!

If I had died at that moment, I would have died happy; aware that I’d experienced the sexiest adventure of my life.

I massaged quick circles all around the flanks of Amy’s tummy as I prospected for the priceless spots that made her thrash and break into different levels of mirth. The spots just above her hip bones were especially effective and made her laugh out loud.

As these laughs subsided a little, Anthony’s yells, which had always been there somewhere, made their way into my aural focus: ‘Ghhht... yrrr... hands off her!’

I stopped and looked at him. ‘There’s no need to shout.’ My facial muscles remained unruly, but this was now more down to elation than nervousness.

Despite Anthony’s struggles he was no nearer to being free. ‘Don’t tell me what to do in my own house! Get off of my wife!’

His level of aggression was pretty intimidating but he was also tethered, immobile, to a chair. I edged off the bed and went to the chest of drawers. I rifled through them until I found some things to suit my purpose.

‘Don’t go through our stuff! Get the hell out!’ shouted Anthony.

I turned to him with a cute pair of Amy’s ankle socks and a silk scarf. I balled up the socks and stood behind him. ‘Open wide,’ I said.

‘No!’

I tried to push the socks into his mouth and narrowly avoided losing my thumb as he champed at it.

‘Very well…’ I said and put the socks into my pocket. I then crouched behind the chaise longue and reached around it in a deliberately slow pincer movement.

He pulled at the bonds as my hands closed in on his waist. ‘What are you doing, man!?’

I didn’t answer.

‘No! Don’t touch me!’

With that, I gripped and set my fingers wriggling into the muscles of his waist. An instant straining sound emitted from his throat but within seconds laughter blew his lips apart. The chaise longue rocked on its feet as he threw his body left and right. He tried to push my wrists away with his elbows but the cuffs prevented him doing so with any great effect.

I walked my fingers up his firm body and jiggled my thumbs rapidly into the the muscles just behind his pecs. He spasmed with erratic bursts of effort. I could tell that his mouth was wide open from the barrage of laughter firing from the back of his throat. While I was infatuated with Amy because of her beauty, Anthony was more ticklish than any guy I had ever seen on the internet. He was possibly even more ticklish than his wife!

Before I felt the need to dry-hump the back of the chair, I chose to feed my curiosity and find out where else he was ticklish.

As I emerged, I noticed a strange sneer on Amy’s face; a confusion of concern and embarrassment at how her husband was reacting.

A light sheen of sweat had appeared on Anthony’s stomach. ‘Don’t touch me, man!’ he said. This was a sincere demand but accompanied by an irrepressible beaming grin. He recoiled as I taunted him by slowly reaching forwards. I placed my fingertips on his chest and, mimicking actions I’d seen in video clips, began to tease his nipples with my fingers.

Again he tried to hold in his reaction but his tight lips burst open with the same wide-mouthed laughter as before. I had always struggled to empathise with any man with sensitive nipples but I just wanted to give it a try and, wow, did it work! I was delighted at my new discovery and played with all the techniques I could think of: fast, slow, light, firm, erratic and in circles. He jerked back and forth, managing to plead amidst his cachinnation, ‘Ohshit! OhGod! No-no-no-no-no-no! Ha ha ha! Shit! Ha ha ha! Oh, God, stoppiiiiiit! Ha ha ha…!’

He surged back in the chair, squeezing his eyes tight and causing the front legs to lift and slam back down on the floor. As his mouth gaped open I saw an opportunity – I took the bunched-up socks from my pocket and popped them onto his tongue. He was so lost to laughter that he didn’t immediately seem to notice, giving me time to secure the socks with the silk scarf. He lurched forward in surprise and I quickly tied a knot at the back of his head.

‘Gnnnfff gnrrr!’ he shouted.

‘I’m sorry, Anthony, did you say you wanted me to do more of this…?’ I said and wriggled my fingers all over his impressive torso.

He shook his head in protest but fell back into uncontrollable laughter as soon as I touched him. He bucked in the chair as if trying to shuffle it towards the door millimetre by millimetre. His perspiration mixed with a sweet-smelling moisturiser, which assisted my fingers as they slithered over his muscles, taking every opportunity to exploit his plentiful weak spots.

I noticed, as my fingers climbed his body, that he started to elevate in his seat. As an experiment I played his ribcage up and down, watching him rise and drop with each movement. I also noticed that the higher I went, the higher the pitch of his laughter became. Then I passed his upper ribs, which made him arch his back.

What’s wrong, Anthony? Don’t you want me to go any higher?’

His nose to the heavens, he shook his head vigourously.

‘No? Is there something there you don’t want me to find?’

He ignored me but was still laughing from my lingering strokes at his serratus anterior muscles.

‘So you’re not afraid I will reach your… armpits?’

Just the word made him struggle and yell a muffled plea.

‘Let’s find out…!’ He clamped his arms to his body to keep me out but my slippery fingers slid effortlessly into his hairy underarms. ‘Oop! Looks like I made it!’ I teased and wriggled my fingertips.

A low moan quickly ramped up into a girlish squeal as he shook with incessant high-pitched laughter.

‘For God’s sake!’ said Amy.

I looked over to her. Her sneer was now purely contemptuous although I couldn’t tell if it was for Anthony or myself. Perhaps both. I got the impression that the sight of her husband being touched by another man was less than agreeable to her.

‘Don’t worry, Amy. I haven’t forgotten about you.’ I said and left Anthony breathing heavily through his nose.


Chapter 9

I knelt over her on the bed.’ Don’t bother,’ she said, unable to match my gaze. ‘This isn’t funny–eeeee…!’ My slippery fingertips began lapping at her delightfully silky smooth underarms, melting her tough exterior to reveal the side of her I wanted to see.

She tittered without pause or variation, which gave me no reason to stop. Her laugh rang out like majestic music and I got lost in her beauty; enhanced by the unadulterated smile she kept hidden from everyone else. I had seen her laugh on the shop floor at Pemberton’s, while downing G&Ts at the Christmas parties and while flirting with Anthony in the park at lunchtimes, but never like this. I doubt this was a side of her even Anthony had seen.

Her head flipped left and right, her eyes squeezed tight as I stroked at her skin. I then sprang to her neck and her eyes pinged open in surprise, her laugh became louder—even joyous—as I lightly played under her chin, over her throat and behind her ears.

I glanced to Anthony. He could do nothing but watch as I slowly lowered my mouth towards her neck. When she saw me coming, a look of concern mixed with her giggles and her usual desire to remain pretty under any circumstance evaporated as she gurned to defend her neck with her chin. I saw my access blocked and smiled; it felt like we were playing a game and so I tickled her behind one ear and, as she coiled her head in response, I dived into the unprotected gap.

I took a deep breath and inhaled her wonderful perfume, clamped my lips to her flawless skin and blew a long, drawn-out raspberry into her neck. The sound of her belly laugh right next to my ear was exquisite! I could imagine how she looked. I drew in a deep breath and blew another; even longer and more drawn-out. The result was a laugh that was even louder and more joyous.

I decided to tease her by running my hands lightly down her body as I drew a slow in-breath on her neck, bringing with it a rush of cold air, which caused her to shiver and let out a Marilyn Monroe-esque “Ooooh!” of either surprise or delight. I felt the hint of goose-pimples when my fingers stroked lightly over her smooth ribcage and heard her shuddering breath of anticipation as my lungs filled to capacity…

…I waited a moment…

…she simpered in torment…

…then I blew rippling air into her neck! Simultaneously, I pressed my thumbs into the delicious golden spots just above her hips. She bucked and threw her head back with unrestrained laughter. It was then that I felt her thigh press against my groin and I realised I’d been rubbing against her.

I quickly sat up to avoid climaxing on the spot. When the moment had passed I looked down and she was watching me, still shuddering with residual titters. I smiled. During my time at her neck I’d become convinced that she wanted me to do this.

That’s when she said, ‘Get off me, you freak!’

I swallowed my smile and responded by grabbing her knees. She convulsed on the spot and burst into wild laughter, thrashing against her bonds. Her hair was becoming messy. I probed and adjusted my squeezing technique and each time accentuated the effects of the squeeze before it. I’d never done this to Catherine–or anyone–but it seemed I had a real knack for it!

I continued to punish Amy for her rudeness but as my exploration of her knees began to incorporate her thighs Anthony shouted muffled threats and demands from behind his homemade sock gag.

‘What’s that, Anthony?’ I asked. ‘You want me to do this to you? Okay!’

His eyes glared in frustration and fear as I stepped down from the bed and knelt beside him. Again he struggled to no avail and I provoked him with childish taunts as I lifted both hands over his strapped legs and slowly lowered them like metal two contraptions in a casino claw machine, with his knees as the prize.

His struggles increased and his protests became louder as my fingers descended annnnnnnd… gripped!

Anthony howled with laughter, his eyes rolled back and he rocked back and forth with primal abandon. I watched him with glee as a fresh layer of perspiration rose on his chest and got the impression that he had slipped into his own private tickle hell.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Amy exclaimed. Dishevelled and still catching her breath from her own ordeal, she was watching Anthony with unmistakable embarrassment. I could predict her shouting, “Enough already!”

His eyes met hers, telepathically transmitting a message along the lines of, “I can’t help it! Make it stop!” Although, with how hysterical he was, I doubt he would have been able to manage such coherent sentences.

Making him lose his mind was so easy that I gave Amy a comical look as I squeezed his knees, hoping she would see the funny side of it. Her expression didn’t change. Clearly she thought I was just a weirdo but I at least got the impression she no longer felt threatened by me.

She shuffled in her position and my attention was drawn to her stiletto-and-stocking-clad feet. My arousal throbbed as I became aware that the opportunity was in my grasp to see them again but this time up close! That would be the icing on the cake of this whole experience.

I was reminded that I was squeezing Anthony’s knees on autopilot when I noticed his own white-socked feet waving for my attention. Male feet were something else I was curious about and I didn’t have to be a genius to know Anthony’s were likely to be pretty damn sensitive.

I fixed an evil grin and looked at him but was concerned with what I saw – he was sweating profusely and obviously needed more air than he was able to get. I tore off the scarf and he blew out the socks. ‘Man………you’ve gotta………gotta stop this!’ he gasped.

‘Why?’ I asked.

He was so overwhelmed with the number of obvious reasons that he just stared at me.

‘I mean, I haven’t even heard you beg yet!’

‘I’m not begging you. Just let us go!’

I smiled. ‘Sounds like a challenge to me! I tell you what: whoever begs me to stop first, I will tickle the other one for a solid ten minutes!’

‘I’m not begging you,’ snapped Amy.

‘Neither am I,’ said Anthony.

‘…and,’ I continued, impressed at my own cool demeanour, ‘because you might accidentally say, “Stop,” or, “No,” without realising it, I want you to address me as “Master” and say “please”. Okay?’

Amy snorted at how fat a chance there was of her saying it and Anthony just glowered. I considered that he may have taken this suggestion as having historically racist overtones, but that wasn’t how I intended it and so chose not to feel the slightest bit of guilt.

‘Let’s start here…’ I said and knelt at his feet. They appeared huge to me and must have been over 12 inches long. He was wearing thick white sports socks. I couldn’t picture them letting much sensation through but I gave them a quick test by twiddling a couple of fingers at one arch. He twitched a little and I heard the familiar strain in his throat as he tensed up. I tested the other arch with the same result. ‘I think you may have ticklish tootsies, Anthony. Would you like to admit it now, or do you want me to prove it?’

‘Get the hell outta here, man! Are you cracked!?’

I took hold of the cuff of one sock with both hands. He twitched again as I accidentally brushed his ankle. I pulled the sock cuff through the restraint and revelled in taking the time to peel it up his foot. First his smooth heel appeared…then his arch…then the ball of his foot…then his toes. I did exactly the same with his other foot.

Foot fetishism is inexplicable to me – why does the sight of a sole turn me on? I can’t put it into words but my brain knows what it likes and Anthony’s soles were indescribably enticing. As someone who appears so athletic, I assumed they would be trashed from being stuck in running shoes or football boots, but he had no calluses, his toes were in good shape and his feet were so large they felt almost monolithic; like they were casting great shadows over me.

I ran an appreciative hand down one foot. He wriggled a little and was obviously judging me but I didn’t care. His soles were smooth and I admired how the dark skin on the tops of his feet graduated into the lighter skin underneath. It was like God saying, “Here they are, my friend. Enjoy yourself!” And with my feet and Catherine’s being the only pairs I had to them compare to, his skin felt different; almost naturally tougher than hers or mine. This made them all the more sexy; being so different from what I was used to. Now I just needed to know how ticklish they were…

I used my nails to make delicate exploratory scratches at the top of one arch. He held his breath, his toes clenched and his head dropped back.

I did the same to the other foot and he fell into shallow, panicked breaths.

My nails skated in circles over the balls of his feet and, although they were clenched, the effect was obvious – he tossed his head from side-to-side, as if in some fevered dream.

I increased the circles to cover more of his arches and this time his reluctant strain sound didn’t last long. As I scampered my fingers down to his heels and focussed there, a toothy grimace spread across his face.

I then raked my nails quickly up both soles and he squeaked, which caused me to laugh.

‘Don’t you laugh at me!’ he shouted with undiluted resentment, but I swiftly undermined his demand by shooting my fingers straight under his toes. He jolted and looked to his wife with an expression that subverted his attempt at valour before erupting into wild, helpless laughter. I unleashed a frenzy of tickling under and between his toes, on the tops of his feet, up and down his soles and around his heels and ankles. Amy and I had only witnessed a comparatively small hint of his sensitivity before this point. His mouth was fixed in a gaping hysteria, his eyes were wide and vacant and he propelled himself back and forth so hard that the chair made a series of leaps across the floor, eventually toppling me onto my backside, although I did not relent in my attack.

I was lost in awe and couldn’t decide on what to focus – his magnificent soles or his sweat-coated face and body. He tried to form a word and I eased off a tad; I didn’t want him to have a reprieve, but I wanted to hear what he had to say.

‘P…!’

‘Yes, Anthony?’

‘P-Please…! Please……’

I sat up, astonished. I didn’t actually think he was going to say it! ‘Yes?’ I asked.

‘Please…! Please stop!’ he yelled, amid whoops of laughter.

‘Now, you know that’s not exactly what I wanted to hear, don’t you?’

He nodded rapidly, showering his thighs with the sweat from his brow.

‘What do you say…?’

He clenched his teeth in a last-ditch attempt to resist that was doomed to failure. His eyes shot a look of regret to Amy as he broke: ‘Pl-please, M-M-Mmmaster! P-P-Please…!’ he drew a huge intake of breath and screamed, ’T-tickle her instead!’

Amy and I were equally aghast.


Chapter 10

‘You what!?’ Amy shouted.

‘I know!’ I cried, overjoyed. ’That wasn’t even two minutes!’

Amy and I clearly had different perspectives on the matter.

‘I’m sorry, baby! I can’t help it! You know what my feet are like!’ said Anthony, but I suspect it wasn’t only Amy who viewed his justifications as pathetic.

She just shook her head and looked on as I crouched at the foot of the bed. I began to unbuckle the ankle strap of one stiletto. ‘Look, why are you doing this?’ she asked.

I took this to be a heartfelt enquiry and, for the first time in my life, I expressed myself with absolute honesty: ‘I suppose it’s not much of a secret now. I have fetishes… for tickling and feet,’ I felt myself blush, ‘and you are so perfect…’

I was a little disappointed that Amy seemed to take this information in her stride. ‘You do know this isn’t normal, don’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes I do. But it’s one of the rarest circumstances… I couldn’t have wished for it in my most aspirational dreams. I know you’re not willing participants, but I’d like to thank you. Both of you.’

Anthony obviously still viewed me as a freak, but I saw something change in Amy. She closed her lips and laid her head back as though she accepted the situation and wasn’t going to question it any more. As she held my gaze I released the strap and slowly, deliberately slipped off the stiletto, which gave a delightful swish against the nylon of her stockings. My heart was once again thumping in my ears and my mouth was dry. I had to put effort into swallowing, which she noticed and it felt to me as though she was now the dominant figure in the room.

I placed down the shoe and felt an almost physical effort to pull my eyes from hers to look at the sole of her foot. I stared in wonder for several moments, admiring how the seam rounded her heel and meandered all the way up the reinforced sole to her toes. Her feet were daintier than I remembered. In comparison to Catherine’s or mine—and certainly Anthony’s—they were positively tiny; possibly a size three.

The reinforced layers of the nylon sole were a sexy hourglass shape, but prevented me from viewing the intricate details of her skin that I longed to see. Still, apparently some women were more ticklish in nylons than without them. To know whether this was the case for Amy Sergeant, I would need a comparison and so I unbuckled the second stiletto.

I neatly arranged the shoes next to each other. Amy was still regarding me with domineering impassivity and the little devil inside me resented it. I was the dominant one in this fantasy come true and I needed to demonstrate as such.

I slowly reached forward to the top of her left thigh. Anthony yanked at his bonds and began with a threatening tone, ‘Hey man…’

He must have assumed I was heading somewhere inappropriate. In response I took hold of the top of Amy’s stocking. As I rolled the stocking down her leg I allowed my fingers to lightly caress both sides of her incredibly soft thigh, over her knee and along her toned calf, causing her to stir.

It was then that I encountered a problem: I couldn’t get the stocking past her ankle due to the restraint.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to tear your stocking,’ I said. ‘But if you let me know the brand I can buy you another pair.’

Amy didn’t answer. Her tactic seemed to be self-imposed listlessness. At this point I didn’t care. Even if her feet weren’t ticklish, I now knew plenty of places I could exploit to bring her out of a trance.

With shaking hands I took hold of the unreinforced side of her stocking and pulled. A ladder formed down the outer edge. I pushed one finger inside, feeling the trapped warmth around her foot. I swallowed again and ripped the nylon apart with a sense of impassioned relief; like a transforming werewolf ripping off his shirt. And there it was at last: Amy… Sergeant’s… bare… foot.

The ripping of the nylon released a bouquet of moisturiser and nail varnish. Catherine knew that I loved to see her nails painted and the smell always turned me on because I knew she had done something to please me. Amy’s toenails were not my favoured colour—they were painted white—so I turned my attention to her freshly exposed sole.

Her toes were wonderfully even and very cute. While she was a fit woman, her sole was somewhat pudgy, which was a good thing to me as it indicated softness. She had the slight remnant of a well-pumiced callus on the ball of her foot and, while I prefer no calluses at all, if one wants the visual gift provided by sexy high heels, that is generally the price one must pay. Her arch was deep, but then I already knew that from spying on her at work when she dangled those heels. And now, here was that arch in front of me.

The thought briefly flitted across my mind that the extent of my arousal was due to how different Amy’s soles were compared to Catherine’s. Catherine’s feet were immaculate. She was a size eight, she had longish toes, with the second toes a little longer than her big toes, she had a high arch, but not as high as Amy’s and she had no signs of calluses as she always wore comfortable, well-fitted shoes.

Catherine’s soles were also angelically smooth. By contrast, Amy’s had some most alluring natural light wrinkles. This made her feet look more mature than her age, even though they were obviously regularly moisturised.

Amy was now looking out the window, as though pondering her grocery list.

I stroked a finger down her nylon-clad right sole. Her body jolted and rocked gently. I mimicked the motion over her bare left sole. She jumped and an involuntary noise hiccuped in her throat. She kept her eyes on the window, evidently trying to pretend that I wasn’t there.

I knelt between her feet and took it in turns to lightly tease her left sole, then her right, gauging the differences between nylon-covered and bare. It was quickly evident from her sweet, scrunching toes that her bare skin was more sensitive. I then had a thought and avoided the reinforced hourglass shape on the sole of the stocking to tickle a little of the outside edge with a lovely result – she giggled and looked down at me with a smirk that indicated she knew she’d been caught out.

I literally growled with satisfaction and tickled the outer edge of her bare foot. Her reaction wasn’t as strong so I scrabbled my fingernails up and down the her stockinged foot. She squeezed her eyes tight and her head fell back with a fixed grin as silent, internal giggles caused her body to pulse on the bed. I simultaneously tickled the centre of her bare foot and laughter burst from her lips. She shook her feet to try and avoid me so I laced my fingers between her toes and she squealed.

’Eek! Not the toe-ho-ho-hoes!’

There was a new ingredient to her laughter. It seemed like genuine amusement; as though she had decided to embrace the “game”. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t projecting this mindset and so asked, ‘Why not the toes, Amy?’

‘You know why!’ she screeched. ‘They’re really tickly!’ and with that, she threw her head back and gave in to abandoned laughter – all resistance gone.

I was lost in the moment. I sat with my head so close to my fingers that I could hear the rasp of the nylon as my fingernails glided all over her foot. I got my nose so close to her bare sole that I could smell the mild scent of perspiration and see the prints of her scrunching toes. I relished each and every second. Life felt complete.

I felt so elated that I almost didn’t know I had torn open her other stocking until I’d done it. I revelled in tickling both bare soles at once. Now it was just as slick and effective as with the nylon because Amy was sweating. Her laughter filled the entire house as she tossed her head back and forth, making a mess of her luscious blonde curls.

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Anthony, who I’d quite forgotten was in the room.

‘She must pay your penance! It hasn’t been ten minutes, Anthony!’

‘Yes, it has!’

Amy and I looked to the bedroom clock. Anthony was correct – time had flown past, but I was nowhere near satiated. I stopped tickling Amy’s feet but she kept giggling.

I had been enraptured in this wonderful moment and didn’t want it to end. Ever. Sweet Lord, I couldn’t appreciate Amy’s feet enough! I had surreal visions of trying to absorb them into me or climb inside them.

Out of nowhere I heard myself say, ‘Amy, can I suck your toes?’

Amy was still giggling but appeared disconcerted.

‘No, you can’t!’ shouted Anthony.

Having not asked Anthony, I was irritated. ‘I think you’ll change your mind,’ I said, and knelt between the foot of the bed and the foot of the chaise longue, which was now pretty close to the bed since Anthony rode it towards the door.

‘No!’ he could predict what was coming. ‘Don’t touch— BWAAAAHAHAHAHAAA!’ he exploded with laughter as my fingers attacked his huge soles. I loved Amy’s reactions but I was mesmerised by how completely this controlled Anthony.

Amy watched him with palpable disenchantment. ‘Don’t you get cocky, young lady!’ I said and put my other hand to work on her right sole. She spasmed in surprise and a comical release of breath rasped from between her pursed lips before she broke into open-mouthed laughter.

I looked between him and her. It was like a dream and I could not have been more turned on: I was dominating this hot and helpless couple by tickling their bound bare feet.

‘Now, can I please suck your wife’s toes?’ I asked.

With his eyes clenched tight and his nose to the heavens, Anthony was unable to verbalise a full answer. He nodded emphatically while the word “yes” was stolen from his lips several times by wheezing laughter.

Through a cascade of giggles, Amy glanced at me as my mouth closed in on her foot and grimaced in expectation of the new sensations. I focussed on her pretty toes until my vision blurred and, with an inhalation of nail polish, I closed my mouth around her big toe.

A moan mixed with Amy’s laughter. While it could have been interpreted a hundred different ways, Anthony appeared stung by her response. I understand he might have wanted his wife to mask any pleasure she felt, but, as a man who wasn’t currently doing his best to resist displaying his emotions, he should not have been throwing accusatory looks at anyone.

Sucking on Amy’s slippery, wet toe felt indescribable. I widened my lips and popped one more little piggy after another into my mouth until I had the whole top of her foot inside. As I did so, I explored the every tickling technique I could think of, from chewing and nibbling her toes to flickering and licking at the spaces in between. With each new addition, Amy’s laughter wavered through a variety of tones, from surprised shrieks to guttural guffaws.

I instinctively straddled the leg of the bed and pressed against it as I continued their persecution. After a short while I paused and said, ‘I have an idea, let’s see who is the most ticklish!’ They both looked at me, sweating and breathing hard. ‘Whoever loses gets another ten minutes, uninterrupted!’

‘No!’ Anthony cried. He seemed close to tears; the loser was easy to predict.

‘Let’s start with the heels,’ I said, ignoring him. I gently teased my finger nails over the heels of Amy’s right foot and Anthony’s left. Both tried to resist but it was Anthony who cracked first.

‘Up to the arches…’ I said. Anthony was already lost to glassy-eyed hysterics. Amy again tried to resist but quickly burst into angelic giggles.

‘Over the tops…’ I said, tracing my fingertips around the soft skin of the tops of their feet. This time it was Amy who flailed the most. She hooted with surprise at how sensitive the tops of her feet were. It indicated to me that I was the first ever to do it. Meanwhile, Anthony jolted and clenched his teeth in a fixed grimace that made him look and sound as though he was being electrocuted.

‘And finally, the toes…’

‘NO!’ they both cried.

There was a moment of silence as they looked at me and then to one another; empathising and dreading what was to come.

I paused for dramatic effect, then unleashed my nimble fingers under, around and between their toes. Both erupted into the pinnacle of their hilarity so far. Their combined laughter was like a divine symphony and both seemed utterly defeated. Anthony wept behind his laughter and Amy stopped struggling – she had her head back in resigned hilarity and the only things moving were the muscles of her glistening stomach as laughter was forced from her lungs.

I needed to pay those muscles above her hips some more attention, but as the thought occurred to me, and I watched her reaction to her toes being tickled, I got overexcited. I wanted to stop it but at the same time I needed it to happen and, as I continued to press myself against the smooth leg of the bed, euphoria washed over me.

I moaned a little but thankfully my fingers were on automatic pilot I was drowned out by the continuous laughter.

I slowed to a stop and looked down. It wouldn’t be long before my accident became visible. All three of us were panting.

Anthony appeared truly broken – tears in his eyes and fearful as to what would happen next. Amy, on the other hand, was still tittering.

I walked on my knees to her side. ‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked, half-smiling.

In response I slowly released one wrist cuff and got ready for her to punch at me, but she didn’t. She gave a little moan of relief and stretched her aching shoulder. I stood and quickly covered myself with my coat.

‘You should be able to get yourselves free now. And I should go,’ I said.

I leant forward and kissed Amy’s left big toe. They both looked at me but said nothing.

‘Thank you,’ I said and hurried down the stairs and out into the street, slamming the front door behind me.


Chapter 11

I had visions of a semi-naked Anthony charging down the road after me so I ran as fast as I could whilst attempting to keep the jacket casually draped over my arm to hide the expanding patch on my trousers.

Every minute seemed like an hour as I waited on the train platform at the end farthest from the entrance. I kept an eye on the turnstiles, expecting to see Anthony at any second and didn’t hear the train until it appeared right in front of me. I got on and slunk down into a corner seat.

As the train pulled away my deep sigh of relief that was accompanied by a particularly feminine moan, which attracted the attention of an old woman who sat diagonally across from me.

I straightened up and marvelled at such a rare and unimaginably fantastic afternoon. If I had been given a year to plan it, I couldn’t have devised a more erotic experience. It will be something I will never forget. I knew that while it was happening and revelled in every moment; every sight, sound, smell and touch.

However, since my climax, I also felt an unshakable sense of guilt and worry. Guilt, because I had effectively cheated on Catherine. No, I didn’t have sex with anyone, but touching and blowing bubbles onto a bound and beautiful young woman in just her underwear could never be classified as innocent in Catherine’s eyes. I wouldn’t be able to tell her about this and I’d never kept any important secrets from her before. And there would be multiple other questions to answer about why I was there and why I did what I did with another woman ...and a man!

And, apart from that, would Amy and Anthony go to the police? The thought sent a cold rush through me. There would have been security cameras at the train station. I’d be really easy to identify, especially if they put posters up around the station and someone who shared the same train as me every day saw them! I resolved to throw away the clothes I was wearing.

From a selfishly sexual perspective, in the cold and post-orgasmic light of day, I recognised that Catherine’s feet were by far more to my taste than Amy’s and despite how extraordinary the experience had been, I really didn’t want to lose Catherine. Or my family.

My heart was pumping and my mouth was dry again.


Chapter 12

I thought about that perfect afternoon every single day for a year. I have “thought” about it countless times and it always did the trick when I made love to Catherine and was struggling to get aroused. As I said before, it will ever leave me.

At the same time, the thought of coinciding with Amy on the way home held a very different flavour – something told me she would recognise me this time! If she threw a fit on a packed South Western train and told people what happened I would be mortified. I might even get lynched! At the very least, it would end my life as I knew it. I’d lose my wife, my family, my house; everything.

I consoled myself that I never heard any more about it. There were no reports in the local news and Thames Valley Police hadn’t requested public assistance to track down The Fiendish Sunningdale Tickler.

This led me to believe that Amy and Anthony hadn’t mentioned the incident to anyone. Dwelling on it further made me wonder if there was a chance they enjoyed the encounter. Perhaps they spoke about it when they made love… Maybe they even had the hope that it might one day repeat itself!

My tummy tingled at the idea.

That is why, a year to the day—on Billy and Julie’s birthday—I found myself taking the detour once again. When I left the house that morning I took a high-collared coat and the hat Catherine’s mother bought me for my 40th birthday that had never seen the light of day. I convinced myself all the way to Virginia Water that there was a 99% chance I wouldn’t go to Sunningdale, but it was very easy to just sit still and watch the doors close.

As I walked the streets towards Amy and Anthony’s house I pulled up my collar and put on the hat. My heart rate increased and my palms sweated as I arrived at their street. My mind raced with all the possibilities of what might happen. Might the front door be left open for me in a homage to the previous year? If it was, would they be tied again? Or would it be a trap, deliberately set by police psychologists who had worked on my profile and who predicted I would turn up?

I neared the house from the opposite side of the road. The front door was shut. There were no signs of life and the Mercedes was not on the front drive. I crossed the road to get a closer look and peer across the driveway into the window, hoping to get some proof the house wasn’t empty. The living room had furniture in it, which gave me a sense of relief but at that exact moment a car appeared out of nowhere and turned into the drive.
I immediately walked away and crossed the street. As I heard nobody chasing after me, I stopped, pretended to check my phone and glanced back at the house.

A burgundy 4x4 sat on the front drive and an amiable Indian family were carrying groceries into the house.

Amy and Anthony were gone.


PART III

Chapter 13

It was a Thursday evening some weeks later when Catherine had decided we needed to do the weekly shop. I suspected it was, in part, to show off her new hairstyle – a neat bob that I wasn’t actually as fond of as her previous shoulder-length style. In any case, anything other than a smile from me would just make her unhappy and, knowing that I wouldn’t be taking her to a cocktail party any time soon, I didn’t argue when she suggested a trip to Tesco.

I was not a fan of these outings, particularly after a long day at work, but at least the kids were now at an age when they could occupy themselves with their phones rather than complain about how bored they were. Plus, Catherine did all the thinking. My duty was simply to push the trolley.

I would occupy myself with Who’s The Most Ticklish? – an imaginary game show I invented to pass the time in which all other female shoppers were unwitting contestants. The rules were that when any two women stood close together I would have to declare who I thought was the most ticklish and the main rule was that their level of attractiveness wasn’t allowed to influence my decision. Then, as we reached the checkout, I would have to decide who won the main prize – a night with me in a BDSM dungeon!

Quite often the selected girl would be someone I fancied the most rather than the one I deemed to be the most ticklish. As long-standing champion of the show, nobody could impose rules on my choice of prize and I suspected tonight’s winner would be the champion of Round 5: the ruby-redhead from the tinned vegetables aisle.

The central aisle was the best place for this game because you got to see everyone in the store as they criss-crossed between the north and south aisles. I could remain there while Catherine and the twins jettisoned off to get what they wanted and bring them back to the mothership… mother-trolley.

‘Sunday roast. Lamb or beef, honey?’ asked Catherine as she put the milk in the trolley.

‘Hmm. I quite fancy lamb.’

‘Me too!’ She smiled and kissed me on the lips.

I watched her head to the meat section and once again recognised that it didn’t matter what she did with her hair; she was the sweetest woman I’d ever known and I loved her more than ever. However, for some reason this feeling was accompanied by a sudden surge of unease and I didn’t know why. It felt as though a grand piano was about to drop on my head. I even looked to the ceiling to make sure no such thing wasn’t about to occur. Thankfully there were no loose light fittings, support beams, or oversized concert instruments but as I brought my gaze down, I caught sight of something that halted my breath: at the far end of the aisle, head and shoulders above everyone else in the store, stood Anthony. His eyes were locked on me.

It was as though he was the only thing in focus amid slow-motion blurs and muffled ambience. Prickly heat raced over my body. His aspect was ambiguous but intense and his eyes somehow flickered with flecks of gold as he stared through the crowd.

I looked to Catherine, who was comparing joints of lamb, then back at him. Although his expression hadn’t changed I read into it an awareness that, if he so desired, my life could be irreparably changed in less than a minute.

My palms sweated as I left the trolley and walked the long, bustling store until I stood before him like an imp before a giant.

‘Hello,’ I said.

He didn’t respond.

‘How are you?’ I asked. This was as much a query as to whether it was the right question to ask, as it was a habitual pleasantry.

‘I knew I’d see you one day,’ he said. His eyes moved off me for the first time. ‘That your wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got kids.’

‘Yes. Now look—‘

He looked me in the eye, which shut me up. ‘You must live around here.’

I didn’t answer.

‘Tomorrow. The Costa Coffee opposite Dalston Junction. Two-thirty. Be there.’ he said.

‘I can’t tomorrow. I have work. I—’

He just glared at me. I looked back to the trolley – the kids were asking Catherine where I was. She caught sight of me and smiled. I smiled back. My cheeks began to quiver again.

’I’ll be there,’ I said.

He walked away.

On my way back to Catherine and the twins I detoured via the frozen foods to cool off and think. Why did he want me to meet him?

A voice made me start. ‘Daddy?’

I turned to see Julie. Catherine was behind her. ‘Did we forget something?’

‘What? Erm, no.’ I looked into the freezer next to me. ‘I just wondered if we should buy frozen Yorkshire puddings so you don’t have to make them on Sunday.’

‘I didn’t know I was making them!’ she chuckled. ‘Sure.’

I lifted out a packet and dropped it into the trolley. ‘Let’s go home,’ I said and we headed for the checkouts.

‘Who were you talking to?’ asked Catherine.

‘Oh, he is just someone from work. He must live around here somewhere.’

‘He’s a handsome young man. I’ve never noticed him when I’ve popped in to your place.’

‘He works in the back rooms.’

I wanted to get through the checkout as quickly as possible in case Anthony reconsidered his plans. I rushed to put all our stuff on the checkout belt, only for the girl behind the counter to decide it was time to swap shifts with a colleague and have a prolonged chat in the process. As they talked, I saw Anthony approach from the far end of the store on his way to the exit. His eyes were on me the whole time. Catherine recognised him and watched me. I nodded a smile to him. Catherine did the same. He smiled back at her as he walked past and out the exit.

‘Handsome young man,’ she remarked.

I felt a pang of jealousy. She rarely commented on anyone’s looks. Certainly never twice.

Once in the car Catherine asked me if I was okay.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about work.’ This was my go-to get-out comment for avoiding conversation. I was pissed off about how much she obviously fancied Anthony and I was worried about meeting with him. At least it was somewhere public so he couldn’t kill me, but I was trying to predict all possible outcomes.

It was only when we pulled into our driveway that I realised something else should have been on my mind: to make sure he wasn’t following us home. As I got out of the car, I recognised his Mercedes as he slowly cruised past.


Chapter 14

At work the following morning I went straight to the HR department to explain that I had to leave early for a doctor’s appointment. On my tube journey to Dalston Junction I changed from the District line to the Victoria line to London Overground. Each wait on the platforms made me sweat as I could picture myself being late but, in the end, I was early. I perused charity shops where I feigned interest in books that remained on the shelves for good reason and arrived at the coffee shop on time.

The lunchtime rush was over and just a couple of customers sat at the window stools. I ordered a latte from the punky young barista and grabbed a corner booth at the rear of the shop, which was the closest thing to being a private area. I could only hope nobody would sit close by. As soon as my bum hit the seat cushion I saw Anthony’s silhouette filling the doorway. He went to the counter and asked the barista for a water. She said she could bring it over to him and he missed the coy smile from her that lingered a little too long to be considered professional.

On any other day it would have irked me that he had to do nothing other than be himself to attract pretty women, but at that moment I was too consumed by why he wanted to see me.

He dropped his coat into the booth and sat opposite me. I noticed that he never seemed to blink, which caused me to blink more than usual. The silence was unbearable.

‘Who starts?’ I asked.

‘You have something to say?’ he said.

‘I suppose I just want to know what you want to talk to me about.’

‘That’s interesting. You came into my house, felt up my wife against her will, assaulted her, assaulted me, humiliated me in front of her, walked away without a second thought…and you don’t have any clue as to why I want to talk to you?’

‘No, obviously, if you’d like to talk about that—‘

‘Yes. I’d like to talk about that.’

The girl approached and placed his cup of water on the table. She smiled again, this time ensuring he saw the interest in her expression.

‘Thank you, darlin’,’ he said in a manner so casual that I could never it pull off.

I waited until she was out of earshot. ‘What would you like to say, then?’ I asked.

‘I want to hear what you have to say about it.’

My mouth felt as if I had spent the last few hours chewing cotton wool but my coffee was too hot to use as a lubricant. I’d had conversations about my fetish in internet chat rooms that generally consisted of nothing more than a stilted repetition of standard questions and answers before moving on to the next person, but I’d never talked to a real life person about it before, let alone a male, and let alone in this surreal situation.

‘Well, obviously, I enjoyed myself and I hope you both did too—’

‘At what point did you hope we enjoyed it?’ he asked. ‘During the hundreds of times my wife told you to stop touching her? Or the hundreds of times I told you to get off? What about the point when you forced me to call you “Master”? Do you think we were enjoying it all through those times?’

My jaw hung stupidly as I failed to find an appropriate response. He sat in silence.

‘It turned me on,’ I whispered. ‘I hoped it would do the same for you.’

‘No. It turned you on and you didn’t give a toss what it did for us.’

‘I’m sorry… What can I do? I… I apologise.’

‘You apologise?’

‘Yes.’

He just stared at me. So I went on: ‘If there’s something I can do to make amends…’

‘Go on.’

‘I’d do it! What can I do?’

‘I don’t know. How can you bring Amy back to me?’

I was shocked. ‘You broke up?’

In response he recounted a comprehensive series of events that preceded our previous fateful encounter. The details were personal but he was very matter-of-fact; letting me know their marriage had been in a very precarious place and he had been doing all he could to repair it and get their lives back on track. He believed he was getting somewhere… and then l entered their bedroom.

He told me Amy was turned on by masculinity and strength. He said he saw the love she had for him evaporate when I made him beg and plead for mercy just by being tickled.

‘A week later she moved out,’ he said. ‘By October we were divorced. Her mother just told me that she’s gone to look for a house… in Australia.’

I lowered my head. ‘I’m really sorry to hear all that,’ I said. I understood how lonely a world without was and I had never even shared a conversation with her, let alone a home. I imagined what it would be like to lose Catherine and I felt his pain.

‘I know Amy. She won’t be back,’ his voice cracked on this last word, which took us both by surprise. He sipped his water and continued through glassy eyes, ‘So, something needs to be done. I don’t go to the cops. And I knew I was going to see you again one day, like I told you yesterday… when you were with your family.’

His tone made me panic. ‘It wasn’t all my fault! You just said yourself that you’d been having problems anyway. Perhaps what happened was just an excuse to leave…’

I stopped. Highlighting the precariousness of his marriage was not the right tactic.

‘You’re correct,’ he said. ‘My relationship was going through a rocky period and if you hadn’t been the last straw, something else might’ve been, but we’ll never know. So, let’s put that to one side. What we do know is that you carried out a perverse ritual on me and my wife—for several hours—against our will. My question to you is: what do I do about that?’

I could do nothing but look at him; my countenance the epitome of gormlessness.

He sipped his water again. ‘I’ve had plenty of time over the past year to think. And to research. I was pretty surprised at how popular this tickling fetish thing is.’

These last words made me physically wince. I hated to hear them spoken when I wasn’t turned on and, at that moment, I couldn’t have been more limp.

‘I’m not oblivious to the fact that it was better that you walked through our door than a full-on rapist…’ I nodded agreement, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, ‘but that’s just about the only bright side I could think of. Obviously it would’ve also been better if you were a decent person, rather than an opportunistic abuser with a tickling fetish!’

I covered my face with one hand and glanced at the barista and other customers to work out if they had overheard him. As far as I could tell, they hadn’t. I wanted this conversation over.

‘But from what I’ve read, the way you behaved and the mess you made in your pants before you left, I know you liked that what you did to me and Amy wasn’t consensual. Psychologically-speaking, I bet tickling is more intimate to you than sex. Am I right?’

I looked down.

‘I thought so. So, in your world, it was very much like a ra—’

‘What do you want?’ I asked. I couldn’t take any more.

‘I want to get with your wife,’ he said.

My heart stopped. He saw the terror in my face. I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said.

‘I think I’ll take as much notice of your “No,” as you took of mine and Amy’s.’

‘She wouldn’t agree to it.’

‘Amy and I didn’t agree to it and you did it to us anyway. But I’ll give you a few minutes to consider it because I think you’ll like my second option even less, which is to explain to your lovely wife where you were and what you were doing that afternoon. How long have you been married?’

‘Twenty-three years.’

‘You’ve done well; she’s way out of your league. And I expect that, after twenty-three years, if I told her what happened, she knows you well enough to realise it was true. How long do you think it would be before she left and took the kids with her? It wouldn’t be hard for her to find a new man.’

It felt the energy drain from my body and I slumped back.

‘You look pale, mate. Take a drink,’ he said.

I did as he suggested.

‘I want this to happen tonight,' he said.

‘What?!’

‘Don’t argue – I’m not interested. I’ll be at your house at eight.’

‘You can’t do this!’ I said, trying to whisper and shout at the same time.

‘It’s down to you to get your wife into a position where I don’t have to struggle with her. Hey, at least I’m giving you a few hours’ notice. It’s more than what you gave us.’

‘If you do this, you’ll be the same as me!’ I said.

He collected his coat. ‘I can live with that. Just remember that I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for what you did to me and Amy.’ He got up and put on his coat. ‘I’ll see you—and your wife—at eight o’clock.’

He tipped a goodbye to the barista on his way out.


Chapter 15

I felt hollow.

Several thoughts rode the merry-go-round in my head as I wished for a solution: if I swept Catherine and the twins away on an impromptu holiday he’d be waiting when we came back and I’d lose Catherine; if I went to the police to accuse him of blackmail, the story would come out and I’d lose Catherine; I could hire a hit man… but they aren’t listed in directory enquiries, and I wasn’t able to get off scot-free with an afternoon of tickling, let alone conspiracy to commit murder!

I looked at my watch. It was 3:52pm; half an hour since Anthony left. Eight o’clock would be here before I knew it.

A horrible realisation came over me that I wouldn’t be able to concoct a solution in time. I felt my stomach drop in the same way it does when Catherine drives over a bridge at speed. Was I really going to give another man the opportunity to have sex with her? What kind of husband—what kind of person—would that make me? I could never allow someone to have sex with her against her will, but I didn’t want to lose my family either.

I also couldn’t ignore the detestable thought that she might enjoy it. She was 18 when we got together and, even though she had always been faithful, I knew there was an underlying kink inside her. Around fifteen years ago we went through a phase of dirty talk about her being with other men. It turned me on at first because I was in my mid-thirties and felt at my sexual prime, but as I passed the 40 milestone I became jealous of the vision and stopped entertaining it. Occasionally she’d bring it up and I’d sense her disappointment when I didn’t play ball. A deeply buried part of me found the idea sexy but, at the same time, I couldn’t stand it.

I found myself dialling Catherine’s number even though I didn’t know what I was going to say.

She answered. ‘Hello honey!’

‘Oh, hi. I didn’t think you’d answer.’

‘I’m just about to pick up the kids. What’s up?’

‘I was wondering if your parents could take them…overnight.’

‘Take the kids? Why?’

‘I just felt like having a little time to ourselves. We haven’t done it for a while.’

‘Ooh! Do you mean you want to get sexy with me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I like that idea! You’re right, we haven’t done it for a while. What do you have in mind?’

‘Something different.’

‘Mmm! Now I’m curious! What?’

‘I’ll… tell you later,’ I said, trying my best to sound enigmatic.

‘Mr Mysterious! I like it! I’ll make sure I’m ready for you! Mwah!’

‘See you later,’ I said and hung up.

I made my way to Waterloo in a daze. Anthony wanted to get even. Maybe he even wanted to tie Catherine down. In fact, I was sure he did but I didn’t have any bondage equipment and I wasn’t going to let him padlock her in place with his cuffs. I needed to get some myself so I could release her quickly if necessary. After a quick Google, I found a BDSM shop in a street adjacent to Waterloo Station. I ignored the embarrassment that previously caused my last-minute detours every time I walked towards a sex shop but as soon as an attractive young woman let me in, a prickly heat covered my body and didn’t stop until I left. I bought a set of leather cuffs and several coils of rope and tried to shake off any visions of how they might be used later in the day.

I found a seat on the train at Waterloo and tried to sleep on the way home to create a jump-cut in time, but the whirlwind of my mind didn’t let me. My nerves weren’t helped by two inexplicable long delays along the journey.

As I turned into my street I suddenly stopped, causing a lady behind me to collide into me. I still hadn’t worked out how I was going to talk Catherine into this! With time against me, I plodded on and pondered all the options I could think of, but none sounded plausible and, in fact, the most realistic felt like the position I had found Amy and Anthony in. Maybe I could leave the door ajar, tie Catherine to our bed and pretend to fall over and get knocked out and just wait for him. Or… I could assassinate him? You’re allowed to do that when someone breaks into your home, aren’t you? Or is that just in the US? In any case, killing someone in front of Catherine, with whom she saw me chatting the previous day, may also bring up one or two questions.

My key was almost in the lock when the front door opened and there stood my darling wife in a red velvet cocktail dress, silky nylons and high heels. She looked absolutely divine. The heels had seen better days, but the fact that there was always an imperfection in Catherine’s best efforts just made her all the more adorable and I had to fight against a lump in my throat.

‘Hello,’ she said in her best femme fatale voice, but then her tone changed into one of concern. ‘Are you okay?’

My arousal at how she looked was obviously visibly tainted by the uncomfortable thoughts. ‘Yes!’ I said, dismissing whatever was on my mind to be a mere trifle. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous!’

‘Thanks!’ She gave a twirl. ‘I didn’t know what you had in mind, so I thought I’d get dressed up for the occasion. Of course, if you don’t want me dressed up, I can always take bits off…’ she said, seeking a confirmation that I was aroused, which I duly delivered with a nod.

‘So, what do you have in mind?’ she asked, excitedly.

I cursed myself for not having rehearsed this moment. Then a half-baked solution came to me in a flash and my appreciation for receiving it momentarily overshadowed how appalling it felt. Before I could stop myself, it fell out of my mouth: ‘We’re having a guest over for dinner.’

Catherine’s eyes narrowed. ‘Okay…?’

I nodded and hoped I wouldn’t have to explain any further.

‘Who?’

I cleared my throat. ‘Do you remember when we were at Tesco?’

‘You mean yesterday?’

‘Yes. Yesterday.’

‘Yes…?’ she said, and instantly pieced it all together. Her apprehensive look changed into one of pleasant astonishment. ‘You mean the young man you were talking to?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Why is he coming here?’

A slight curl at one corner of her lips dried out my mouth. Because she was genuine by nature, her attempts at deceit were so under-practiced that there was a childlike obliviousness to how unconvincingly she portrayed innocence. Hence, her only means of hiding an excited smirk was to squash it with a forced frown.

The green flames of jealousy began to flicker inside my chest.

‘You said several times you thought he was handsome and when I saw him at work today, I told him what you said. He said he thought you were very pretty too and I know you like fantasising about being with another man, so… I invited him over.’

As I spoke, I longed for her to protest and state it was just a fantasy; that she would never sleep with another man because she loved me too much and I was all she ever needed. Instead my insides crumpled into the shape of a desiccated walnut, because she listened open-mouthed and blushed bright red when I mentioned Anthony’s compliment. Worst of all, she began to smirk again.

‘Oh, my gosh!’ she said, covering her face with both hands and turning away.

I trowelled on a concrete exterior and waited.

‘I’m not sure I’m ready for this,’ she said.

‘Let’s just take things as they come,’ I said. I couldn’t face the challenge of trying to persuade her to sleep with an attractive and athletic younger man.

‘I’d better put something special on!’

‘You already have something special on.’

‘Oh. Then I’d better get something ready for dinner! I don’t think I have enough for three!’ she said and hurried to the kitchen.

I glanced at the clock. It was 7:34pm.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said as I dropped the bag with the BDSM gear on the floor and slumped into my armchair. ‘I’m not very hungry.’


Chapter 16

The telly remote was thankfully so close to my hand that I had to make the most minimal of efforts to switch it on, otherwise I wouldn’t have done so.

Catherine was a flurry of activity and nervous chatter that thankfully required no response from me because I couldn’t hear anything she was saying. Even the sight of one of the outstanding episodes from my favourite sitcom couldn’t distract me.

I watched the minute hand as it finally reached eight o’clock. There was no knock at the door.

A part of me felt relief; as though eight o’clock on-the-dot was the arrangement and because Anthony hadn’t arrived he automatically forfeited the deal. This fantasy was short-lived but it did lead me to consider whether he might be the type to just put the fear of God into me but not turn up.

I felt a renewed hope. How long would I have to wait before I could confidently feel this was all just a scare tactic? “Because I’ll do it, God,” I thought, even though this was the first time we’d chatted since I was 11. “I’ll sit here watching the clock all night long, listening to Catherine’s endless list of flustered questions as she realisation dawns that she’ll be stuck with me for the night. Please just don’t let him turn up—“

It was then that the telltale crunch of footsteps on the driveway gravel caused a zing of alarm throughout my body. The six wooden front porch stairs were scaled in three steps that caused the wood to creak. Then the doorbell sounded and made Catherine drop the fork with which she was setting a third place at the table.

I wrenched myself from the armchair to find her checking her hair in the dining room mirror. She then gave me a nervous smile and stood in the living room doorway, peeking out and waiting for me to open the front door. I felt like a butler—already the most disposable part of this encounter—but even more so when I opened the door to reveal Anthony in a top-of-the-range black suit and white shirt with the top two buttons undone. He held a bottle of wine and a rose.

‘Hi,’ he announced with understated confidence.

‘Hello,’ I whispered, from the other end of the spectrum.

He knew Catherine was watching but remained unmoved, with his eyes locked on me, until I was forced to speak: ‘Come in, please,’ I said, noticing how shiny his smart shoes were.

He wiped his feet and cast his gaze at Catherine who stood with uncharacteristic shyness, half-hiding in the living room.

‘Hello. I’m Anthony,’ he said.

‘I’m Catherine,’ she said and held out her hand.

His hand dwarfed hers as he took it gently and lifted it to his lips. ‘What a pleasure,’ he said and handed her the rose.

‘How lovely!’ she said, with a girlish giddiness that made me want to shout at her to stop behaving like that.

She led him into the dining room. ‘Please come in,’ she said.

I shut the front door and hurried to join them. Anthony was already making himself comfortable in my chair.

‘We usually ask guests to take off their shoes—’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about that!’ Catherine interrupted. ‘Would you like me to pour you some of your wine, Anthony? It looks rather posh!’

‘I don’t drink, actually. I’ll just have water. I brought that for you.’

‘You don’t drink?’ I asked.

‘I never really feel the need for it,’ he explained.

‘Well, that’s impressive!’ said Catherine as she admired the bottle all the way into the kitchen, leaving Anthony and I alone.

One look from him let me know I shouldn’t try to assert myself with demands such as the removal of his footwear. I took one of the other seats and felt very out of place in my off-the-rack work suit and woollen grey socks.

‘I hope you like lamb…’ said Catherine as she returned with a glass of white wine for herself and a water for him.

‘Love it,’ he said. ‘It smells great and I’m sure you’re a wonderful cook, but right now I’m thinking of tucking into something else.’

Catherine almost spat out her wine. ‘You just say what’s on your mind, don’t you?’

‘That’s the way I am, Catherine.’

Lost for words, she looked at me for the first time, still with the giddy smile that I wished she would control, even if it were just out of consideration for my feelings. ‘I’ve not done this before. Shouldn’t we get to know each other a little more…?’ she asked.

‘We can do that, if that’s what you’d like,’ he replied. ‘But there are only so many hours in one evening and I like to take my time. Hopefully, if we make our way to the bedroom, I can show you everything you need to know about me.’

Catherine went to take another gulp of wine but Anthony spoke in a way that slowed her hand: ‘I can tell you’re nervous, but don’t get tipsy – I want you to remember everything about this evening.’

He punctuated this with a reassuring smile and Catherine appeared utterly spellbound. I witnessed the change in her as she embraced the situation – she lowered her glass without taking even a sip, took a deep breath and said, ‘Maybe we should go upstairs.’

My heart felt like a fine china vase, precariously perched on the corner of a high mantlepiece over a cold granite floor. I hoped she included me in the invitation and I was immeasurably grateful when she took my hand.


Chapter 17

The overwhelming lucidity of the situation made me feel like I was gliding as Catherine led me upstairs, but I dropped back to earth as Anthony’s heavy footsteps met the stairs behind me. A ripped patch of wallpaper just above the skirting at the top of the stairs caught my attention. It had been a feature of the landing since the twins got bored with their toys one day and occupied themselves by pulling at the homestead décor. Catherine caught them and put a stop to it and, to prevent them being told off, I said, “Don’t worry – it’s time we redecorated anyway.”

That was over six years ago and I felt a pang of embarrassment that my house was not as stylish or pristine as Anthony’s.

We entered the bedroom and he closed the door behind us. We stood in a silent triangle. For the first time I could convince myself that we were equals in this scenario, until they both regarded me with an expectation of some direction. I felt my mouth emulate that of a goldfish.

‘Why don’t you sit?’ said Anthony, taking the initiative, for which Catherine seemed grateful. But, while she interpreted it as a helpful suggestion, I knew it was an order.

I went to our outdated armchair, which had been used as place to sling clothes vs a place to sit at a ratio of approximately 500:1. By the time I sat, he was already closing in on her. She was visibly shivering with nervous expectation and looked up at him with the “overawed maiden” expression every man wants to believe only he has the power to evoke from his woman.

I didn’t feel it could get any worse for me than having to witness this. If it would have done me any good to plead with him to stop I would have done, but he wouldn’t be satisfied, the truth would come out and this would all have been for nothing.

‘Are you cold?’ he said, gently rubbing the tops of her arms. ‘You don’t feel it.’

‘No. Just nervous,’ she said with a pathetic giggle.

‘Then I shall have to try to make you less nervous,’ he said with a tone that was obviously intended to have the opposite effect. And it did. She shivered again. ‘Maybe you should get onto the bed.’

Catherine threw me an excited glance. I forced a smile. Of course, if this was going to happen, she should enjoy it. I just didn’t want to see her enjoying it.

She sat on the bottom of the bed and laid down, then wriggled her way up until her head almost reached the pillow. I could tell she was self-conscious at not having done this in the most elegant of fashions.

‘One moment…’ said Anthony.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘We can’t have you wearing your shoes on the clean bed sheets, can we?’

My heart froze in my chest.

‘I suppose not,’ she said.

‘Let me,’ he said.

He gallantly knelt at the foot of the bed and removed one of her shoes. I prayed to God he wasn’t into feet.

With two gentle swishes Catherine’s nylon-clad feet were revealed. He placed her high heels neatly under the bed.

‘There you go,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she replied and ventured toward the pillows with no more grace than before.

I focussed on Anthony’s eyes, seeking the merest flicker of movement that might indicate an interest in my wife’s feet. I pictured myself flying at him on a surge of adrenaline, but this was probably more of a fantasy than something that was ever likely to happen. However, instead of looking at her feet, he turned to me. He could not have failed to notice the look of undiluted dread on my face but he remained enigmatic.

He removed his blazer and draped it over the arm of my chair – half dropping into my lap. Catherine settled into place as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat next to her on the bed.

‘Tell me, Catherine: what do you like?’

Catherine responded with a look of delighted surprise, as though she’d never been asked that question before.

I was sure I had asked her that question before.

‘Well, I like to be admired and desired…’

He nodded and listened.

‘I like to be held…’

‘Tell me more.’

‘I like feeling hands around my body, here…’ she indicated her torso just below her chest. ‘It makes me feel small, but secure.’

Anthony gave a subtle hum of appreciation for what she was saying. He moved closer to her and slowly placed his hands around her rib cage. ‘You mean, like this?’

Catherine closed her eyes and moaned with pleasure. ‘Mmm. Yes.’

I felt a kick in my insecurities that she seemed to talk from experience. I couldn’t remember ever doing something so innocuous to her and, unless she’d been harbouring a secret desire for it since she was 18, I was curious to know how she knew she liked it so much.

‘You never told me you liked that,’ I said.

‘You never asked, honey,’ she replied meekly, her eyes still closed.

Jealousy burned at my chest. Even if I did this to her in the future, I surely couldn’t surpass this moment; not only was Anthony the first to do it, but his huge hands almost encompassed her torso. I saw him smirk and resolved to never again crack open an insight into such a thing.

Just then Catherine twitched and her eyes popped open.

‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ asked Anthony.

‘No. You accidentally squeezed my rib and I’m ticklish.’

Pow! It came out of nowhere and thwacked me across the head like a sopping wet bath towel. The words that, if spoken by Catherine at any point in my life before that moment, would have turned me on more than anything. They now made every cell of my being cringe.

I fixated on Anthony and could only hope this needless admission wouldn’t be followed by him dangling some hackneyed phrase such as, “Oh, really…? Then you wouldn’t want me to do this…!?”

Instead he replied, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll try not to do that again,’ and went back to holding her in place.

I released my grip on the arms of the chair.

‘I like your dress, Catherine,’ he said.

‘You d-o?’ Her question was interrupted by pleasure as he slid his hands along the velvet and came to rest either side of her breasts. He began to massage them. I waited for a surge of husband’s indignation to fuel the fire of my jealousy but it didn’t come. I was too relieved at not having to witness what would have been a thousand times more disturbing to me – if he had taken advantage of her sensitive ribs.

His hands ran over her breasts and I predicted how hard her nipples would be; pressing against the padding of her bra. Catherine looked to me and smiled. At last she was checking to make sure I was okay with this. I smiled back to reassure her and she returned to her own little world.

‘I feel so spoilt,’ she said softly.

‘As you deserve,’ he replied.

‘What do you like, Anthony?’ she asked.

‘Me? I don’t think I should say. As it’s the first time we’ve met.’

‘Erm, you have your hands on my tits, mister – we are safely beyond small talk!’

He snickered. ‘Okay, then, Catherine: I like bondage.’

‘Ooh! That’s naughty!’ she said.

Again, the implicit bedazzlement in her tone was instantly abrasive to me. I like bondage, but I never saw the point of introducing it into our bedroom conversations if she was going to hate what I did to her while she was tied!

‘I like being held down—‘ she said. Again, this was news to me. ‘—but I’ve never been tied before.’

I could tell this pleased Anthony. ’Perhaps it’s time your dress came off,’ he said, then he addressed me: ‘Don’t you agree?’

I feebly concurred.

‘You heard your husband, Catherine: he wants you to get undressed for me.’

In a ritual of anticipation, she stood and presented her back to him. He slowly unzipped the dress and she inched it from her shoulders to the floor. As well as the sexy black stockings, she was wearing the sweet lilac Victoria’s Secret underwear that I only ever saw on Valentine’s Day.

For the first time, Anthony’s uber-cool persona slipped. ‘My God. You have an incredible body,’ he said.

‘You’re surprised?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know what I expected.’

He coaxed her back onto the bed. She knelt with the blinking innocence of a naive young virgin and for several long moments I was certain they were going to kiss.

He placed his giant palm on the smooth curve of her waist and stroked it. She went rigid and clapped a hand over his, stopping him and stirring my rancor once more.

‘Anthony,’ she said. ‘I want you to be happy. Would you like to put me in bondage?’

I broke into a sweat.

‘Yes, I would,’ he replied.

‘Do you have anything with you?’

‘Yes. It’s in the car—‘

‘I have some!’ I interrupted.

‘You do?’ asked Catherine in surprise. ‘Since when?!’

‘I… got some today. Just in case.’ I hurried from the room, bounded downstairs to the shopping bag by the armchair—knocking over a stale cup of tea in the process—and raced back up, half-expecting them to be French-kissing in a tangle of limbs and bedclothes. Instead, they were as I had left them.

‘Here,’ I panted, handing Anthony the bag.

He waited for me to sit then pulled out a tangle of ropes, cuffs and an under-the-mattress restraint system. Any questions Catherine had for me were swept away by the thrill of the impending experience.


Chapter 18

Catherine was amused and impressed when Anthony lifted our new mattress with her still on it and slung the restraint system into place.

‘You’re very strong, Anthony. Do you do sports?’ she asked.

He just smiled and encouraged her to lie back down. She shivered again with nervous energy as he slowly wrapped the leather cuffs around both wrists. As he cupped her nylon-clad heel, raising her right leg for the ankle cuff, I saw her leg jump. It was subtle, but I knew why it happened: her nervousness was making her exceptionally sensitive, and I was glad he didn’t notice.

He then did the same with her left leg. This time her reaction was more pronounced.

‘Feeling jumpy, Catherine?’ he asked.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘like I said: I’m ticklish.’

I screwed up my eyes and shook my head to blank out what I’d just heard.

‘Yes, you mentioned that before. Are you trying to tell me something?’

’Like what?’ she asked, perplexed.

‘Do you want me to tickle you?’ he said with a devilish tone and ran his hands up the silky nylon of her calves.

‘Oo! No!’ she squealed at a high pitch. In a second she was on the pillows, hugging her legs.

My heart thumped in my chest.

‘Put your legs back,’ he commanded, softly.

Catherine began to slowly unfurl herself. ‘Okay, but promise you won’t tickle me! I’m really extremely ticklish.’

‘Put them back.’

She hesitated, but did as she was told. My dread was compounded when I noticed his smile.

‘You didn’t promise not to tickle me,’ she said.

‘I know I didn’t,’ he replied, matter-of-factly. ‘Let’s get you tied down and then I’ll decide what I’ll do with you.’

With that, Catherine spread her arms and legs to each corner of the mattress. Of all the things that had happened thus far, this offended me the most because I can guarantee that if I was in Anthony’s position, Catherine would have done everything short of making me sign a contract to ensure I didn’t tickle her.

She fixated on him as he secured her into place then crawled up the bed and loomed over her; resting on his fists. I could see her heart beat as they just looked into each other’s eyes. The only sound in the room was Catherine’s nervous breath. She and I both had the same question in mind: what would he do next?

He lowered himself until his lips met her stomach and began to kiss it all over. Soft and gentle. She closed her eyes and moaned a little. He moved down and and kissed over the silky material of her panties, occasionally pausing to blow warm air through the material. When he kissed her inner thighs, Catherine drifted further into her own world and turned her head so I couldn’t even see her expression. I was totally surplus to the situation.

His hands slid up her body and found her bra. He must have unclipped it somehow because he lifted it without effort and Catherine’s magnificent breasts were exposed. She welcomed his look of deep appreciation. He massaged them as he continued to kiss and gently nibble at her thighs and loins. He then moved higher and she opened her eyes to greet him; willing him to do what he moved up to do: he cupped his lips over each breast in turn and began to lick at her stiff nipples. She began to writhe and press herself against him.

I had to look away. I was ashamed that I couldn’t remember the last time I saw Catherine so aroused. I resolved to be a more considerate lover. That is, if she ever wanted to sleep with me again after this.

Suddenly, she gasped.

I looked up. They were looking at one another – Anthony was stoic while Catherine held her breath with a smirk of confusion.

‘Yes?’ said Anthony.

‘You did that on purpose,’ said Catherine.

He nodded.

‘I told you…’ she said.

‘Told me…?’

‘I’m ticklish!’

My stomach performed a triple backflip.

‘I know,’ he said.

‘You promised—‘

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Oh, God, don’t—’

‘You said you wanted to make me happy, did you not, Catherine?’

She nodded.

‘Well, this is something that would make me happy.’

She was speechless and turned to me. I was frozen in my seat.

‘I won’t be able to take it—’ she said.

‘Aww, I’m sure you will…’ said Anthony as he began to play with her in a way that was obscured from my sight.

She flinched. ‘No, wait, let me get ready. Let-me-get-ready-let-me-get-readyyy!’ she pleaded, but before she could say any more she was overwhelmed and the room filled with her divine womanly laughter. She struggled, naturally, but the bonds, plus Anthony’s position on top of her, meant she couldn’t move to any significant degree.

Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God!’ she exclaimed in between bouts of laughter.

Anthony lifted himself and I could see the grip he had on her waist. He balanced himself enough to comfortably mirror the action on her other side and she screamed in surprise.

He stopped and she gasped for breath; assuming it was over.

‘Oh, my God, you’re so naughty!’ she said, flushed. ‘That’s too much!’

‘I’m not finished,’ he said in a businesslike fashion.

‘What?!’

‘I’m just being nice and giving you a small rest.’

‘Why do you want to do this to me?!’

‘You look beautiful when you laugh, Catherine. And I want you to feel who is in control.’

Catherine blushed and seemed to accept these reasons.

‘Ready…?’ said Anthony, priming himself.

Catherine shook her head vehemently and steeled herself. Anthony’s taunting fingers closed in on her hips and teased them in a way that walked the line between light strokes and pressure; it was not a touch that would render a laughter response. I felt hope that, within the last ten seconds, he’d somehow lost the knack. Still, Catherine was the easiest of targets. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling and was doing well at maintaining her composure via breathing that took me back to the Lamaze classes we attended when she was pregnant with the twins, but suddenly she jolted and let out a squeak.

Anthony looked up. Catherine clamped her mouth closed, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling as she earnestly attempted to zone out the sensations of what was to come, but her pursed lips twisted with the smirk of inevitability: she wouldn’t be able to resist.

She was playing his game.

She was willingly playing his game.

It was only when I made a noise that I realised I had been holding my breath in time with Catherine. It caught all three of us off-guard and they glanced at me. Anthony noted Catherine’s momentary distraction and took full advantage.

The moments that followed are indelibly imprinted on my mind; more than any other event in my life…


Chapter 19

Anthony’s fingertips wriggled deftly into Catherine’s toned tummy muscles. She threw her attention to the sky but it was too late: her clamped lips forced her cheeks to expand like a trumpet player preparing to blast out a prolonged high note and she couldn’t contain it. Her back arched, her nylon-covered toes clenched and her eyes widened just before her lips blew apart into an open-mouthed toothy smile accompanied by a torrent of the most glorious laughter I’d ever heard from her elegant throat.

She twisted and thrashed with a strength I’d never before seen her exert. The bonds kept her wrists and ankles in place but the contortions of her body untucked and ruffled up the bedsheet beneath her while her laughter filled the room like a symphony of celestial chimes. My anguish at seeing another man do this to her and my impulse to stop him was quashed by the part of me that was hypnotised by the undiluted eroticism of it all. An unfamiliar turmoil crept over me: Catherine’s uninhibited laughter at the hands of a younger man was breaking my heart but also turning me on more than ever before.

His fingers played up and down her torso and prompted her to respond with cartoonish, non-sensual babbling that materialised in a way I hadn’t managed to achieve in so many years of marriage: she appeared to be enjoying it.

At Anthony’s hand, her mouth stretched so wide that there were moments she was almost unrecognisable to me. ‘No-please-no-please-no-please!’ she cried with an ever-rising tone before tumbling into an abyss of helpless laughter.

A subconscious need for self-preservation threw an idea to the fore and I decided to play the part of the observer; retreating to watch and enjoy the activity while devoid of emotional attachment – an attachment we would recommence when we were once again our regular twosome. I tried to make believe I was watching Catherine perform in a stage play, but, just as the thought brought a degree of emotional comfort, her eyes met mine and dragged me at 200mph out of my spectator’s chair and back into reality. She wheezed several times, evidently trying to form words and gasping for breath after each failure: ‘Hhhhhhhh……Hhhheeeee…… Hhheee hee hee hee hee……’

A sense of dread built in me as I predicted what she wanted to say. If I was correct, it would disturb me to the core and be one more thing that would never be just something for me and Catherine alone; it would always include Anthony. I returned her unblinking stare, willing her to complete her sentence with words that were anything other than the ones I didn’t want to hear, but, like a tightrope walker losing his balance, my focus seemed to draw the unwelcome conclusion with the strength of a junkyard magnet and she finally cried: ‘He’s tickling me!

All energy left my limbs while, at the same time, my arousal strained at my underwear.

‘He’s tickling me! He’s-tickling-me-he’s-tickling-me-he’s-tickling-me...!’ she cried, steadily raising in pitch and desperation before erupting into an inelegant and drawn-out cackle. When Anthony concluded that this reaction showed no signs of dissipating, no matter how long he went on, he walked his fingers up her body. She responded with an involuntary whine when she predicted his next destination and did her best to retract her smooth armpits. Her efforts were in vain as he slowly followed the skin of her underarms into the hollows of her pits and teased at them. Her response was gradual.

‘It tickles!’ she said to him.

He nodded.

‘It tickles! It tickles! It tickles!’ she repeated with increased panic.

I was angered at her commentary. “Stop saying that, woman! If you get into a fight, you don’t tell your attacker, “You’re hurting me!” after every bloody punch! He knows what he’s doing; stop giving him the satisfaction of letting him know it’s working on you!”

However, despite a countenance of revulsion that made my face ache, I couldn’t deny my fascination. Catherine’s underarms were one place on her body that I had never targeted during the times I’d annoyed her by tickling her. I had only ever suspected how she would react. Now I knew: she went absolutely crazy. The muscles in her beautifully toned arms showed their definition as she pulled against the restraints, and the veins in her reddening neck protruded as she howled with guffaws.

Anthony again probed her torso. He was seeking vulnerable spots. I saw the moment he realised the secret that, up until that moment, had been kept solely for me: every spot on Catherine was a vulnerable spot. He had to move no more than half a centimetre in any direction to take her by surprise, in the same way another woman may need you to move from her waist; to her knees; to her armpits; and so on, in order to keep her on her toes, so to speak. Catherine was hyper-sensitive and could be tickled on virtually any part of her anatomy.

My instinctual need to blink deserted me as Anthony’s large hands encompassed around both sides of Catherine’s waist and lower ribs. His thumbs worked in symmetrical tandem as they probed gently at spots on the flanks of her waist, driving her to bellowing levels of hilarity.

Suddenly, his eyes looked directly into mine. I was taken aback, like a Peeping Tom caught red-handed. With Catherine lost in helpless laughter, he varied his current motion on her lower ribs, raising and lowering her reactions at will, like a masterful jazz musician picking up the instrument of a novice to “show how it’s done”. His point was crystal clear.

In return, I scowled at him. His acknowledgement told me that this simple act of defiance had overstepped a boundary. He got off the bed and came to my chair. Catherine was surprised at the abrupt cessation. Lingering giggles still emanated from within her as she wiped tears of laughter onto her shoulder. I did my best not to gulp as Anthony stood over me.

I think Catherine was on the verge of thinking something must be wrong when he leaned down and whispered: ‘I know you, you fetishist. I know this must be killing you. I’ve researched. I’ve trained. I’ve practiced. I’ve taken lessons from professional Dominatrixes. I’m better than you, and I’m tickling your wife better than you’ve ever done it.’

He was vulnerable where he stood, but I was convinced that if I hit him it would hardly effect him and may well put my own fist out of action. Still, a rumbling resentment swelled from my gut into my limbs. The absence of anywhere to put this energy had me on the verge of tears.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ said Catherine.

Anthony straightened up, drank in my frustration with a dismissive sneer and turned back towards her.

‘Get her knees next!’ I said.


Chapter 20

‘What!?’ exclaimed Catherine.

Anthony hesitated and looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t quite decipher; it either read, “Are you serious?” or, “Don’t dare order me around.” Possibly both.

‘Get her knees,’ I said. ‘She can’t stand it.’

Catherine threw a few light insults my way while Anthony and I locked eyes. He understood my move. It was my only choice: to appear as though I was in charge.

‘Very well,’ he said.

The tarnish on Anthony’s mood certainly effected his method. As he knelt on the bed between her legs his relaxed persona took a back seat and he swiftly placed his hands above her kneecaps.

‘No…’ said Catherine, with a genuine fear. ‘Please, not there!’ Her panic served to elevate her vulnerability and when Anthony began those dreaded pincer squeezes—not too hard and not too soft—I fully comprehended the consequences of my actions.

Catherine lurched forward with a scream of wide-eyed panic. Her taut abdominals held her as upright as she could get as electric sensations flew through her body. She actually appeared to be going insane, not least because she was jabbering incoherently. She wasn’t even really laughing until the undeniable sensations forced their way to the surface and transformed her expression from terror into one of pure hysteria. She hurled herself back into the mattress and thrashed from side to side with screams of laughter that were louder and more desperate than before.

Anthony served me a vindictive look that read, “This is what you wanted, right?”

I couldn’t hold his eye. Although she was doing all she could to escape his grip, he was holding her in exactly the right way: balancing the pressure without a moment’s respite. I hadn’t thought it possible to regret this situation any more. Catherine was lost in a chaos of mirth; writhing around so much that the sweat-drenched pillows fell across her face and onto the floor; and strands from her new haircut clung to her face.

‘Do you want me to cease?’ Anthony asked her, while still focussed on me.

She nodded frantically, unable to form words.

‘Would you prefer me to do anything other than squeeze your lovely knees, Catherine?’

She nodded as before and mouthed, “Yes, yes, yes,” but this was accompanied only by wheezing laughter.

‘Then I will…’ he said and stopped. ‘…it’s time I paid attention to your feet.’

My head fell against the back of the chair.

Catherine’s chest heaved. As Anthony shuffled backwards to kneel at the foot of the bed, the residual effect of the assault on her knees kept her laughing. There was a hopeless resignation to her spirit as she started to beg: ‘No, not my feet. Not my feet. Not my fee-hee-hee-heet!’

‘Did you know, Catherine,’ said Anthony, ‘some people are more sensitive in nylons while others are more sensitive on their bare feet?’

‘Oh, my, God…’ she said in dismay.

‘Shall we see what kind of person you are?’

I closed my eyes and looked away. I wanted to fall asleep and wake when it was all over but I couldn’t prevent from hearing everything.

‘No, please! My feet are so ticklish!’ said Catherine.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Anthony.

The next sound was the unmistakable rip of nylon. I didn’t want to look, but I had to be sure. Anthony knelt tall and proud over my wife’s defenceless feet; one with its shape still accentuated by the sexy glossy stocking and the other naked, with the shredded material hanging from the ankle.

‘My my my, Catherine,’ he said. ‘Is there any part of you that isn’t sexy?’

Catherine was palpably flattered.

‘Your wife’s soles are the most luscious I’ve ever seen,’ he said, turning to me. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, barely audible.

‘And you can take it from me, Catherine: I know what I’m talking about. You see, I also have a foot fetish. Yours surpass the beauty of most 20-year-olds’ feet.’

I watched Catherine blush – speechless from flattery and in anticipation of the impending sensations. Then Anthony lowered his face towards her bare foot. Having worshipped her feet so often, I could picture exactly what saw: her flawless toes, with nails painted exactly as I like them. My jaw dropped as I envisaged what came next, but as I closed my mouth I felt nothing and instead it was Anthony who closed his lips around her big toe. He sucked and licked for several minutes, working his way from toe to toe and revelling in every moment.

This calmed Catherine. I think she even went cross-eyes as she rested her head and hummed with pleasure. I’d never made her go cross-eyed before.

Totally unable to move, I caught sight of a framed family photo on the wall. It was the signature photo from the day Catherine, the twins and I visited a funky new portrait studio in Lightwater some time ago. The photographer got Catherine and I to give the kids a piggy-back race and he captured a perfect image. It was when we got the photo set back, and they seduced Catherine into spending out on a larger print than the one they originally pitched to us, that I felt a strong pang of guilt. Each day I fall a little more in love with Catherine and she looked so immeasurably happy to have such a perfect moment on paper that my heart swelled but my stomach sank to consider that I had been stalking Amy when I had such a beautiful and loving wife at home. It preceded the moment I resolved to stop stalking Amy, but failed to do so before that fantastical afternoon in Sunningdale.

And now, as a direct result, Anthony had dominated me. And my beautiful wife.

And he wasn’t finished…


Chapter 21

A brief slurping sound from Anthony injected a shot of indignant adrenaline back into me – he was spending far longer on Catherine’s toes than I spent on Amy’s.

I decided to assert myself once again and suggest he go back to Catherine’s armpits, but as I was about to speak, Catherine gave a yelp. Anthony’s hand hovered over her stockinged foot. He’d stroked it. And, unlike the soles of Amy’s stockings, Catherine’s were without any protective reinforcements or seams – they were plain and slick. A tickler’s perfect accomplice.

She looked down at him with a nervous smirk that I interpreted to be almost flirtatious. My indignation increased.

He released her glistening toes from his mouth. ‘It’s time for the test, Catherine.’

‘No, please – not my feet, Anthony. I’m begging you…’

Another thing she’d never said to me. Another gut-punch to my brain.

‘Your wife is begging me,’ he announced.

‘I heard her,’ I replied.

‘Beg me more, then, Catherine. I want to hear you,’ he said.

‘Please. Please, don’t tickle my feet,’ she said without hesitation.

‘I think you can do better than that,’ he said, and teased the sole of her stockinged foot.

She yanked violently at the ankle restraint, which gave zero slack, and, once again, her pleas were accompanied by a rapid escalation of pitch and panic that ended with her surrender: ’Please don’t tickle my feet, Anthony. I’m begging you, Anthony, I’m begging you please don’t tickle my feeeeeeet!’

Her clad foot spasmed and twisted as she fought to avoid his finger tips, which glided with aggravating dexterity over her glossy sole.

‘I still think you can beg me better than that,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what happens if we invite your other foot to the party…’

‘Neeow!’ Catherine shrieked with an instinctive alarm, yanking her bare foot just as violently as before, without even being touched.

His fingertips wriggled towards her sole. ‘Perhaps sufficient begging, with a greater range of vocabulary, might persuade me to stop.’

Catherine instantly played to his tune: ‘Please, Anthony! I’m begging you! I’m ticklish! I’m helpless! I can’t take it! You have all the power! Please don’t tickle me on my feet! Have mercy, have mercy, have mercyyyyy!’

Each word mounted on top of one another and felt like a barrage of boxer’s slugs to my face; knocking me right and left against the ropes. Then his fingers met her bare sole and she wailed before lapsing into a cataclysm of panicked laughter.

‘Oh, my God…! You’ve got nails…! Your nails are so ticklish…! Oh my, God…! I need help…! I’m beg…begging you for mercy!’ she cried amid her hysterics.

Anthony said nothing but continued to play with her feet: sometimes the stockinged foot, sometimes the bare foot, sometimes both together and Catherine returned to the commentary that further grated on my psyche:

‘My feet, my feet! Oh my poor feet!’ she cried.

“Shut up!” I thought, “They’re not separate entities! You can’t feel sorry for a part of yourself!”

Tears of laughter ran over her cheeks and she pleaded with me through her laughter: ‘Help me, baby…! Nothing I can… can say will stop him…! He’s tickling my feet…! He’s tickling the bottoms of my feet…! Oh, my God…! He’s so good at this…! It tickles, it tickles, it tickles…!’

‘I know! I can see!’ I finally snapped.

A look of confusion flittered across her brow. Anthony obviously sensed my temper but took it in his stride and, tearing open the other stocking with a single hand, simply confirmed, ’Yes: we have a winner. Bare it is.’

Catherine’s attention was once again all his. The intense sensations of both of her sublime bare soles being expertly tickled returned her to the verge of insanity. The intensity of her torment somehow made her regress to a time before we met—when she wasn’t as well spoken as she had been throughout our entire relationship—and she screamed: ‘OH MY GOD…! Please, Sir…! Please, Master…! I’ll do whatever you want…! Just please stop tickling me…! You win, you win, you win…!’

With this, Anthony’s chest swelled with the pride of an all-powerful deity and I couldn’t take any more.

‘For God’s sake!’ I said, ‘Just fuck her!’

Anthony looked at me. He slowed but didn’t stop, swirling the tips of his fingernails all over Catherine’s size eight soles and bringing her down from her uncontrollable hysteria to a steady stream of giggles that verged on pleasure.

‘Say that again,’ he said.

‘Please,’ I said, ‘make love to her.’

Catherine looked to me with gratitude. She occasionally twitched at the sensations from her feet, but the writing of her groin was due to her complete arousal. She licked her lips and said to him, ‘Yes, Anthony. I’m yours. Make love to me.’

Anthony slowed the motions to a stop.

‘No,’ he said.

Catherine and I were speechless.

‘That’s not what I’m here for, Catherine. I’m in love with someone else.’

Catherine’s disappointment was clear, but this sentiment was something she understood.

Anthony collected his jacket from my chair and went to leave, then paused, silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. His demeanour was inscrutable but his parting word seemed final:

‘Goodbye,’ he said.

Catherine lay on the bed, brimming with unspent energy and huffing in frustration. The second we heard the front door close she turned to me: ‘For the love of God, get over here and fuck me!’


Epilogue

Catherine snoozed in my arms. She never slept after sex, but this was just one more thing I needed to add to the list of “firsts” achieved that day.

It’s funny how the post-orgasmic state seems to send one’s Inner Lunatic back into his cave and allow one’s Life Manager to emerge back out into the light of day in a pinstriped suit. It was only then that it occurred to me: even if it was guaranteed that I would never see or hear from Anthony ever again, I wouldn’t feel at rest. The guilt of a sexual encounter without Catherine’s knowledge was something that I would have to carry with me forever.

That was the only option.

Well, it wasn’t the only option: I could be honest with her. If the day's events had proved anything, it was how she might have an open mind to things if approached in the correct way. And, knowing how understanding she can be, there’s a very high chance she would forgive me. It could even bring us closer.

But if that was the case, I need not have let another man do the things to her I was forced to witness that evening.

As this was not a consideration I wanted in my head, I closed my eyes. I tried to sleep. I hoped I’d feel differently about it all in the morning...


THE END.


When I first had the idea for this story it seemed fairly straightforward, but as I delved into it I realised how much of a character study it was. I have really enjoyed how it gave me the chance to enter the mindsets of some people who are very different to who I am as a person.

I also began to realise, via messages I’ve received and chats I’ve had, how many people like the m/mf scenario. Very often recently I’ve found myself saying, ‘I’m currently writing a story about that very thing!’

I hope you enjoyed it and, if you did, leave a comment! :p :)

Tamira



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i definitely vote this for Golden Feather award.
this is crazy, ... what a high epic literature writing skill like a pro novelist!!
 
I.. Am Genuinely Speechless..

In case you can't audibly hear me from wherever you're at in the world, I'm giving you a hearty round of applause
 
Exhilarating. " A Day at the Beach" was already a fav, this one is up there with that one.
 
Amazing! So much built up between the caracters. Just awesome!
 
A remarkable ending too, Anthony in spite of losing his Amy wouldn't do the same thing to the protaganist in the end.
 
i definitely vote this for Golden Feather award.
this is crazy, ... what a high epic literature writing skill like a pro novelist!!

:blush: Thank you! I've no idea how one gets nominated for such a thing, but I'm grateful that you think this story deserves it!

Great writing!!

Thank you!

I.. Am Genuinely Speechless..

In case you can't audibly hear me from wherever you're at in the world, I'm giving you a hearty round of applause

So that's what that sound was! ;)

One of the best, if not the best story I've read here.

Wow. Thank you!

Exhilarating. "A Day at the Beach" was already a fav, this one is up there with that one.

If I had to choose, I think A Day at the Beach is also my favourite of my own stories! I'm glad you think this matches it! :)

Terrific story! What a fantastic level of detail

Thank you! I did put a lot of time and effort into this one.

Amazing! So much built up between the caracters. Just awesome!

For me, if the characters aren't worth following, whatever happens in the story is much less powerful. So I'm really happy you mentioned them! :)

I agree with Jim. One of the best ever. Instant classic!

:boogie:

A remarkable ending too, Anthony in spite of losing his Amy wouldn't do the same thing to the protaganist in the end.

It's really nice that you mentioned that. I spent so long on this one that the characters took on lives of their own and occasionally took me by surprise. That hasn't happened to such an extent before. I suppose the length of the story helped a lot! :blush:

My... ghod...

Is this a good response...? ;)



Such lovely comments! Thank you all! :blowkiss: As this might possibly be my last personal story that I post here, it's been lovely to read such unprompted compliments!

x
 
Wow - there was so much hard work in this. I was hooked! Great story!
 
It was lovely to hear that this story had been nominated for a TMF Golden Feather! I have no idea what the outcome was, but thank you to everyone who liked CUCKLED enough to vote for it!

:blowkiss:
 
It was lovely to hear that this story had been nominated for a TMF Golden Feather! I have no idea what the outcome was, but thank you to everyone who liked CUCKLED enough to vote for it!

:blowkiss:

Wonderful, sexy story

I would love to see all three get together to get revenge on Anthony in the future
 
You are one of the Great writers on this site. I have read your stories many, many times over. Thank you for sharing your gift with all of us.
 
Wonderful, sexy story

I would love to see all three get together to get revenge on Anthony in the future

Ha. That's an idea!



Incredible story! Thank you.

This story pushed so many buttons!

Aw, thank you! :) Which buttons were they?!



You are one of the Great writers on this site. I have read your stories many, many times over. Thank you for sharing your gift with all of us.

That's very kind of you. I'm happy you enjoy each story more than once! :)
 
I have to say, this is a great story. Very interesting premise and some interesting twists along the way.
 
I read this story a long time ago. I thought I'd read it many times, but I have re-read it only once, tonight. It has lived so vividly in my memory for so many months. Magnificent in every way. A real inspiration to the writing game. Thank you so much Tamira.
 
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