Po Lazarus
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(This is the device described in the events of the following story, I have had to attach it at the top of the thread. Pay particular attention to the elastic cord at the sides, as this is relevant later. There are elastic cords on both sides, but you can't see it on this picture)
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This is the third in a series I will be writing and sharing here on the fiction forum. As the title suggests they are instances from my life that almost belong on the ‘True Stories’ sub-forum (My favourite TMF area), but which I cannot in good conscience put on there and claim verisimilitude: they are based on real people (Names changed) and often on real situations and conversations, but I have embellished certain details, some related to the tickling, some related to the set up or other aspects of the anecdote. Some are exaggerations of real tickling incidents, some are fantasies thrust into my brain due to real happenings which could have gone that way, if the stars had aligned more or I had had a bit less inhibition at the time. I will not reveal which to the reader, I will simply write them as I wished they had happened, and how I sometimes think of them on those lonely, sexually frustrated nights that we all experience (Which I am experiencing a deluge of at present, as due to unfortunate circumstances that I won’t go into, I am living separately from my fiancé, which has spurred me to take a renewed interest in the TMF, and in erotic writing generally. I guess if you enjoy the stories, my loss is your gain!). They will all be presented autobiographically, in short story form. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to leave feedback of course, just remember to be as respectful to me as I would always strive to be to you!
December 2021 Update: I’m stuck living apart from my fiancé again (Long, pandemic related story), so have dusted the writing off and thought I might as well share it where it may be read and appreciated. I hope you enjoy it.
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A year had passed since the incident with Anya in the Jacuzzi. I had been successful in my ongoing ‘Vanilla Cover’, and had managed to brush the incident off as just innocent messing around, and there was no inherent awkwardness going forward. If anything, Anya and I became even closer. Particularly after I got a promotion at work and had to spend more time with her as a necessity. She had previously performed the role that I had been promoted into, and became a natural source of personal moral support for me, in addition to her duties as my line manager, and her input in countless meetings and other day-to-day occurrences. It was a rare day where I hadn’t spoken to her between five and ten times, either on the phone or in her office (Where I loved to go, as it always gave me a fair chance of catching sight of her naked feet, underneath the desk). We spoke outside of work too, and occasionally did some volunteering for the organization we worked for outside of our contracted hours, at various events.
It became so that she knew I could be relied upon, because she learned that my natural above-average work ethic was akin to her own. She even felt comfortable asking me for help with her written English, if she had some important correspondence to send off. Which was really something, given that she had been so insecure about it around me previously. Given our mutual respect and physical attraction to each other, there’s a good chance that something romantic may have happened, were we not both spoken for, as I have said in the previous story. As it was, we would work together for another year or so before I would be promoted again and would be relocated, which was a shame. Thankfully, at least before I went, the following incident occurred – an incident which burned into my memory even more than the Jacuzzi incident previously told in this series.
It happened on a Sunday afternoon in the summertime. We didn’t usually work weekends, but to quickly explain: we had several days per year where the individuals we supported didn’t attend the unit we worked on, and staff came in for training, usually around the safe use of new equipment. The Friday before this one, we had received a delivery comprising several huge boxes of various types of equipment, to be used going forward and to be used in the training day that we had on the Monday. On the Friday we had meant to unpack the equipment, but with things as they always are at work, other things got in the way and we didn’t manage it. I spoke to Anya about it as we were about to lock up on Friday night.
“How are we going to do the training on Monday without all that shit unpacked?”
“I needed to speak to you about this, but I didn’t have time today. What are you doing on Sunday…?”
This was followed up with an endearing “I need a huge favour, and you already know what it is…” type of beaming smile, and a subsequent agreement that if she brought me coffee in the morning and ordered us lunch, I’d come in on Sunday and help her unpack all of the equipment, and get it set up ready. We weren’t martyrs: we had donated our spare time to the cause before, because we did both genuinely have a passion for helping the people we were supporting (and still do). It was one of the things I really liked about Anya, and one of the reasons she liked me. At this stage, I had no other designs other than giving her a hand, but I’m forever grateful that it turned into more than that.
I arrived on Sunday morning to find Anya looking typically fabulous, but in a ‘Weekend’ way. No makeup, hair down, and the formal attire swapped out for gym gear – which was where she was going after we were finished. A pink cotton T-Shirt, ¾ leggings made of tight, black lycra (Which showcased her pert arse perfectly), ankle socks and trainers. We had our coffee, and proceeded to have a physically laborious but pleasant morning unpacking all the equipment, whilst taking my Bluetooth speaker from room to room so we could listen to some tunes as we unpacked.
Our usual easy banter picked up and took on a slightly different sphere; just 10% more flirtatiousness, 10% more gall about it developed, because it was just the two of us around to hear it. All the equipment was pre-assembled, so it was just a case of removing it from the packaging and setting it up in the various rooms around the unit, ready for training. Anya was much more experienced in the field than I was, and took it upon herself to explain what much of the equipment did, even giving demonstrations in some cases. I didn’t think it at the time, but this would prove invaluable later on.
We got most of it done before lunchtime, and had lunch in the sun on the grass verge at the back of the building. As we sat on the grass with the sandwiches she had bought us, Anya shifted her trainers off with her toes, and sat wiggling them in her socks, rotating her ankles simultaneously. The trainers tumbled lifelessly down the little hill. This was in line with her frequent desire to get her shoes off as often as she could, as aforementioned. As part of my dedicated ‘Vanilla Cover’, I didn’t mention that I’d noticed it when she did it, but when we’d finished, she stood up and picked up her trainers, rather than put them back on, and I thought it would be normal to comment.
“Aren’t you putting those back on?” I asked.
“Nah, my feet need to cool down. It a hot day.” She said innocuously (I loved how she struggled with English tenses – it was adorable).
“OK, but you’ll have to be careful with the boxes, I don’t want you chopping your toes off under them. I agreed to come here on my day off, not take you to A&E.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” She returned to the building in just her socks, her trainers slung back over her shoulder.
There’s something about going in to work when the building is empty, dressed in your casual clothes, that feels slightly odd. It’s like it liberates you from your usual workplace behaviour, lowers your inhibitions slightly, and relaxes you subconsciously. I guess this is why some companies have casual Fridays or certain days where staff can be more relaxed with their appearance. This was compounded on this day by the fact that it was just us in the building, so we could speak, swear and banter freely, have the music as loud as we liked, etc. And, it slowly dawned on me, it was totally reminiscent of the magical time that I had tickled Anya’s feet in the Jacuzzi – because no one could hear us. Perhaps it was the sight of her newly shoeless feet that jabbed this thought into my brain, but I started to internally speculate about whether I could get her again. As it happened, the ultimate tickling apparatus, which I was previously ignorant of, was waiting for us in one of the boxes we had yet to open. When we did, it would be like fucking Christmas to me.
As we worked our way around the rest of the rooms doing the unpacking, we became more progressively flirtatious. Several mock arguments about how we were lifting some of the equipment. Trying to trip each other up as we went into rooms. Her walloping me over the head with a sheet of ripped cardboard, and me hitting her back with another. We unpacked a shower chair in a bathroom, and Anya playfully sprayed some water at me using the shower head, getting water all over the floor. We weren’t soaked, but got slightly wet. We were laughing and feeling giddy.
We then moved on to the next and final room. It was the Occupational Therapy, Sensory and Relaxation room, the walls and floor of which were totally lined with padded foam. Standard procedure when entering this room was to remove your shoes, as it could damage the foam if you walked around with your shoes on, and could dirty it also. I began to remove mine, and to my surprise Anya reached down and peeled off her socks, baring her bronze feet. “My socks wet from the shower!” She said, when she saw me notice this. We entered the O.T. room, her socks drooped on the floor outside.
The box that we had to unpack was fairly small, but weighed a ton. “I wonder what’s in here?” I said. “I know already.” Anya said, as we dragged it into the middle of the room and started to rip open the cardboard. When we unpacked it, I saw something that I genuinely couldn’t believe existed. The second I caught sight of it, I knew it could be used for the ultimate ulterior purpose*. I had a rough idea how it worked from how it looked, but I played dumb.
*(As I’ve attached the photograph above, I won’t waste words describing it physically, but perhaps take another look now we’re at this point, Dear Fetishist, to keep it fresh in your mind.)
“What the hell is this thing?” I said, trying to sound casual.
“We had one in the place I used to work. It gives you massage. Deep pressure.” Anya said, matter-of-factly.
“But how?...” I was pushing the feigned ignorance a bit, but just about managing it, I felt. She had demonstrated some of the other equipment we had unpacked, so I was gambling that she’d do so again.
“I show You.” Anya said.
Bingo.
Anya got on all fours on the foam floor, and approached the apparatus on her hands and knees, stopping when she reached the two horizontal ‘rollers’ and unfastening the elastic cords on either side, which had been holding the top roller in place against the bottom one. She lifted up the top roller, placed her head under it and moved through the opening that was created, letting the roller fall onto her neck as she crawled forwards through the device. She let out a satisfied moan as the roller snapped back into place and put pressure onto her shoulders, back and legs as she emerged through the other side, before collapsing on her stomach from the minor effort. It was a clever contraption and you could see how it would be nice for someone who’d been sat stiffly in a wheelchair all day to get out of it and get some deep pressure on their limbs, especially their back. That wasn’t my immediate concern, however, as I put my devious scheme into motion. She had stopped with the roller closed around her ankles, her lush soles staring me in the face invitingly.
“That’s really nifty. But what if?…” I said, bending down.
“What?” Anya asked, looking back at me over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
“What if?...” I sat in front of the feet, my heart rate shooting up.
“What if what?”
“What if someone did this?” I traced my index fingers down both of the soles, starting at the heel and moving downwards in a sideswiping movement.
“ARGH!” Anya yelped, jolting her ankles upwards and lifting the roller up as she did it. My reflexes kicked in quicker than hers, and before she could get out I grabbed the roller and pushed it down, leaning on top of it with an elbow so that she couldn’t lift it again. I then fastened the elastic cords on the side of the device, slipping the loop over the third knob down, so that the elastic was at maximum tautness, and the upper roller was pulled vice-like into holding the ankles in place against the lower roller.
Anya, I could see, was already trying to move her feet in an attempt to lift up the roller again and slide out, but it was held so fast that she couldn’t even wiggle her feet, let alone lift her ankles up. For a second I worried about her circulation, before realising that this wasn’t an issue due to the softness of the foam holding her ankles. If a more perfect tickle torture device has ever been conceived of, I am yet to discover it. Its better than a pair of stocks, honestly. And Anya was about to discover that. She realised it, too:
“Po, please, not tickles again! Remember when we were in hotel last year?! I too ticklish!!!”
“Come on, how can I not do this? I owe you one for splashing me in the shower room!”
“I’m sorry! I-ARGH!!!”
I had already begun running my fingertips up and down her soles; I didn’t see any point in discussing it. She managed to stammer out “THAT’S NOT WHAT IT’S FOR!!!” before she started losing it. When I had tickled her in the Jacuzzi, there had been a degree of physical struggle between us, even though she’d been firmly trapped then, too. This time was different. I had to make no effort whatsoever in restraining her, I just had to concentrate on seeing how much devastation I could rain down on the defenceless feet before me.
I didn’t have to hold onto a foot with one hand whilst tickling with another, like one would with feet presented in stocks or other apparatus. These feet were truly stuck fast: the roller was immobile and had no ‘give’ in it, so the tops of her feet were pressed hard against the foam, her toes pointing to the floor, heels skyward, soles out. All I had to do was wiggle my fingers next to the soles – I didn’t even have to track the movement of the feet with my hands as a foot-tickler usually has to do, as the feet couldn’t move. It was minimum effort, maximum results.
And what results! I’d seen the degree of Anya’s ticklishness when I’d tickled her in the Jacuzzi. I’d never described Anya as a ‘10’ in terms of attractiveness, although she was hot. But in terms of ticklishness, she was an 11. She howled, screeched and bellowed, laughing at the top of her lungs as the only response she could muster to the irrepressible tickling sensations being visited upon her feet. Almost through disbelief at how little effort I had to make to drive her to full-throttle, I was approaching near-laziness with my technique, just raking and scribbling the soles repeatedly.
It then hit me that I should alternate things a bit, so I got in amongst her toes. She screamed! Oh, how she screamed! Her cries must have been echoing all over the corridors of the empty building, and I found that this was turning me on even more than I was already, as I knew no one could hear her. I continued this for some time, before taunting her. I eased off slightly so we could interplay.
“Yell all you like, no one can hear you! There’s no one here!”
“PLEASE, PO! PLEASE!!! I CAN’T STAND IT ON THE FEETS!!!” (Her English got worse when she was flustered)
“Nah, I think you can. In fact… Oh, man!” I had just spotted something in the corner of the room.
“WHAT?!”
“Oh, man! You know what will make it even worse? It would make it unbearable! Maybe it’s too cruel?...” I chuckled to myself as I stood up and crossed the small room.
“DON’T DO IT!!! WHATEVER IT IS!!! PLEASE!!! FUCK!!!”
As I stood up and stopped tickling momentarily, Anya mustered the strength to try and escape. She tried to reach back and unhook the elastic, but couldn’t leverage herself into the correct position to be able to reach, due to her ankles being trapped. I saw her then attempt to lift the device with her legs, perhaps to flip it over and reach the elastic, but she wasn’t capable of it as the thing weighed an absolute ton. It was, I later learned, also perfect for sitting in the other way around, fixing your own feet in in front of you as you sat facing it, and performing sit-ups. The weight of it was designed to hold you in place so that you could do this without moving and disrupting your exercise. There was no way she was going anywhere. I realised that the bondage I had managed to manipulate her into must have been worse than being completely bound, as she could move her upper half freely, but her lower half was totally immobilised. It just somehow seemed worse.
She collapsed onto her stomach, and began begging again to be released, laughing in a “I can’t believe this!” sort of a way. I bantered with her as she did it, as a barometer for checking that she was still comfortable with the situation. She was clearly still looking at the scenario as slightly flirty but within the parameters of co-worker fraternisation; very ‘us’. There was obviously an enhanced level of enjoyment for myself, however I felt the general spirit of the tickling to be the same. But I needed to get my money’s worth (Or not, as I was effectively working for free for the day). I had the item I needed and I took my time in picking up a small beanbag, laying it down next to the gorgeous soles, and lying leisurely by them, up close. Then, I started rubbing the baby oil in.
For the purposes of Occupational Therapy, we kept the O.T. room forever stocked with a good supply of baby oil. Anyone who has worked with people with disabilities will be aware of its many uses. Well, I was going to introduce Anya to another: to make ticklish feet more ticklish. She gasped as she felt it going on, and I indulged her for a second in a firm massage as it went on the creamy soles and in between the curvaceous toes.
As I did this, it occurred to me that I’d never been this close to her feet before, and probably never would be again, so I should really drink them in. They were lovely. Not a spot of roughness, with the tops corresponding in colour to the rest of the tanned skin that pervaded the rest of Anya’s body, and the soles a deliciously creamy light gold. They weren’t wet, or under water, as they had been the last time I’d tickled them, so were in more of their natural state, so to speak. Luminous. They shined lusciously after the oil was on, looking soft and sensitive. Anya was no-one’s Mug and knew instantly why I’d oiled them up. She had her breath back a bit and didn’t shout as much when she complained:
“That’s going to make it more tickling!!!”
“More tickling, eh? Good idea!”
“You know what I mean! Let me out now, you’ve had a laugh at me! Please!”
“Well, technically, you’ve been doing most of the laughing, and I want to hear more! I’ve come here on a Sunday for you! I Have to get something out of it!”
“Fuck you, you asshole!”
“Oh, dear…”
As I punished her defiance with some stiff scrabbles at her oily arches, it was as if she was being hit with an electric current. Instantly, she hollered and guffawed louder than I’d ever heard her before or even thought possible. She’d laughed intensely so far, and when tickled last time around, and even on a couple of occasions besides that, when I’d worked her into hysterics with words alone in her office. But nothing compared to this. She was laughing an uncontrolled, unrestrained belly laugh, which boomed around the room and beyond. I had to ease up a little bit to let her breathe properly. I didn’t want her to switch to ‘serious mode’ and demand to be let out, as I knew I’d have to if I went too far. Still, I had gone pretty far, further than I’d ever thought possible with a woman who I wasn’t otherwise sexually involved with, and damn wonderful it was, too! She caught her breath, and began begging again.
“FUCK!!! STOP!!! THE BABY OIL!!! IT’S HORRIBLE!!!”
“I think it’s quite nice stuff, and you can’t complain too much, half of it’s gone on the rollers…”
“IT MAKES THE FEET MORE-ARGH!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
I had started again, but felt I should take her up to full volume. Even though I didn’t really need to, I thought I’d immobilise the feet even more. I grabbed her right foot with my hand, holding it firm at the top, before peppering the desperate flesh of the foot bottom with multiple tickles, repeating on the arch, heel and ball in random order. The toes got it pretty bad, too. Then I switched up, gripping the left foot and changing hands so that the tickling hand corresponded with the tickled foot. This was ticklish devastation, and Anya reacted as prescribed.
She thumped and slapped the foam floor repeatedly, and started coming out with gibberish such as “FUCK ALL EVERYTHIING!!”, “SHIT ME!!!” and so on: ‘Polglish’ swear words which didn’t exist. I was tickling her so badly that she was losing her already tenuous grip on English, driven so far to distraction that the cerebral process that happened in her head when she translated from her native tongue to her adopted one was rendered useless. After that, her begging was pure Polish, which turned me on no end, as it had in the Jacuzzi the year previously. I continued the near-sadistic tickling for some time, until the silent laughter came.
Which was the signal to stop, as much as I didn’t like it to be. For the same reasons I’d had to cut things short in the previous tickling instance with Anya, I had to do so here. The same boundaries applied: she was my boss, we were just friends, and I couldn’t take things too far with her. The ‘Joke’ as she saw it (Even if it was much more profound to me) would start to wear thin soon and she would become genuinely upset, I felt, even if she wasn’t yet at that point. So I stopped.
I leant back in the bean bag, and she slumped forwards onto her stomach, panting and still laughing, again in that “I can’t believe you did that!” sort of a way. It was over. When I unfastened the elastic, she limply lifted the roller up with her ankles, and crawled across the floor, before adopting a foetal position and continuing to pant. She looked over at me, her head resting on the floor. She chuckled.
“Oh my God, you’re a terrible tickler!” Laughing, mock-angry.
“I think I’m a brilliant tickler!! I’ve had practice.”
“Well, you’re good at doing it, but it’s terrible! You know what I fucking mean!” She still hadn’t got her breath back. “I hope you don’t tickle your girlfriend as bad as that! That’s the worst anyone ever tickle me in my entire life!”
“Sometimes I do, if she deserves it. You’ve been pushing your luck with me all day, so you deserved it!”
We laughed together. After a minute, she stood up, composed herself somewhat and shouted: “I told you, if you tickled me again I’d kick your ass!” and there followed a playfight on the beanbags and foam mats that comprised half of the O.T. room. I enjoyed it, but was extremely careful not to enjoy it too much, as I didn’t want our relationship moving out of the realm of that of friends and respectful colleagues. We all know how play fights can lead to so much more if managed carelessly. It did briefly occur to me to maybe try and pin her down, and find out if she was ticklish elsewhere (My bet would be: “Yes”), but I managed to summon on the self-control not to act on my urges. So we lay on the beanbags alongside each other for a few calm minutes, before exiting the room and leaving the building. As we were locking up, I was back into casual mode.
“See you tomorrow then. Are you heading to the gym now, by the way?”
“Fuck that! I’ve had my work out for today, Thanks to you!” I got a playful punch on the arm, and we walked climactically to our cars.
