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Number 7: The Buffer F/M (Part 1)

PeterVincentTGVK

1st Level Red Feather
Joined
Jun 25, 2007
Messages
1,064
Points
38
There is the briefest pain in my head when my eyes open. Like a flash of pain wafting from my left eye to my right eye. It only lasts a moment but it is enough to make me wince. The last thing that I remember was getting into the car with James. The bartender had been helpful enough when we came in and James had asked him where the diamonds were hidden. After learning that they were in a large zip lock bag concealed in the back of the toilet in the men’s room, James had gone in to recover them. As to not arouse suspicion, James and I had then had a drink before making our way into the getaway car. Soon after James had turned the key though… I got dizzy…

I look around the room and my heart sinks. I am naked and secured properly to a kind of exam table. To my right, I see James. I have never seen him like this, though. He looks as though he has just run three miles in fifteen minutes. He is as nude as I am but he is also covered in sweat… panting for breath… and barely conscious. I wonder if he would even have the strength to respond if I tried to get his attention. I can see little pink lines running up and down the length of his sides as if some kind of pointed object had been drawn along them. That is strange enough. But then I see his feet. Weirdest damn thing. There is some kind of unknown chemical or substance all over them. Lotion maybe? Hard to tell from where I am laying.

Finally, I see the only other person in the room. A woman. One with short brown hair and a white lab coat. She looks at me as if she has been standing there, watching me, for a little bit. Her eyes are bright blue. Piercing. There is the smallest possible hint of a smile on her face. Just enough to suggest that she is happy that I am awake…




Oh, good. He’s awake. I was about thirty seconds away from asking 13 if she would send in the nurse with some smelling salts. His friend had already fessed up to what we needed him to. There was only one question left to ask. When Phase 2 had begun and I used my metal fingertip claws on his ribs, he told me all about the deal and the setup. But he wouldn’t tell me about the origin of the diamonds. At least not until I broke out the rag and soapy water and scrubbed his feet.

After that, he talked. All I needed to know now was who their benefactor was. And if the first subject had known that… he would have told me. As I look into the confused eyes of the second subject… I hope for his sake that he knows the answer to that question.

I take a look at his body, sizing him up. He is thin but not too thin. Athletic. Pale skin. I’m guessing his feet are about a size ten and a half. Not bad. Long toes. Interesting. His manhood is rather average but then they all tend to look fairly similar when flaccid. His six pack is well defined. His nipples are bigger than I would have expected. Perhaps just under an inch around. But it’s his eyes that catch my attention. I swear that as long as I keep my current occupation, I will never get tired of that look. That scared but curious look that they all have the first time they see me.




“What the fuck is this?” I ask with some authority. I get no answer. At least not from the woman who is gazing at me with such interest. Instead, there is a voice over two speakers on either side of the room.

“You know why you are here.” A female voice says. It sounds like someone who is a bit older than the woman who is in the room with me. “And if your partner had possessed all of the information that we required, we would have been happy to simply release you. But unfortunately… it falls to you to reveal the rest of what we need to know. Number 7 is here to make sure that you are properly motivated to do so.”

The woman in the lab coat gives me a slight wave hello and an even slighter forward tilt of her head when she is mentioned.

“And if I don’t feel like talking?”

“Then Number 7 will make sure that you feel like making other sounds.” The voice said in a cryptic and threatening manner. While I have no idea what that means, it is clear that this Number 7 intends to do to me whatever she had already done to James. I look over at him. He looks exhausted. But he doesn’t look like he is sporting any real injuries or anything. I feel confident that I can withstand whatever torture they might have in mind.

“I guess we’re going to be here for a while then.” I relax my muscles and look up at the ceiling as if I don’t have a care in the world.




“Number 7, you may begin.” 13 instructs me over the speakers. The subject tries not to look at me as I step up to the table. That’s okay. He’ll notice me soon enough. I get a closer look at his feet. The heels and balls of the feet are pretty red. Not uncommon. But the arches and insteps are almost as pale as the rest of his skin. In my experience, I have found that certain parts of the body are more sensitive to touch depending on the color of the skin there. It can be indicative of any number of things. The number of nerve endings, hormones, so many things can effect it. Some of the same reasons why the genitals are usually a darker skin color than the rest of the body.

I start Phase 1 by softly fluttering the pointed tips of my fingernails against his heels. Not much of a reaction. And that’s not surprising. Most people aren’t very sensitive on their heels. When my fingers climb a little higher though, towards those softer, more pale areas… he giggles and tries to pull his feet away. It never ceases to amaze me. He is tied down pretty securely. He knows that he can’t move his feet away from me. But he still tries to. They all try to move when I find a sweet spot. It doesn’t matter that they can’t get away. They still try to. That’s the power of the tickle.




“Hehehehehe… hey, knock it off.” I can’t help but feel conflicted. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved being tickled. My mom used to tickle me in my crib and then later throughout grade school. My first babysitter would play tickle games with me before bedtime. My first crush tickled me on the bleachers at the Homecoming game that year… All through my life, I have associated being tickled by women with excitement and joy.

When I first started to discover the joy of touching myself, I used to think about being tickled by women while I did it. This was completely natural because I didn’t know that much else of the opposite sex in terms of playful physical contact. I even remember, to my embarrassment… my mom walking in on me at one point, touching myself while looking at the picture section of a website called ticklingforum.com.

Now, as I looked down at the woman tickling my feet with that unreadable smirk, I could feel myself getting excited…




The toes are my next target. I move my nails up to them before I see it: He has a boner.

It’s rare but this does happen sometimes. The subject has a fetish and actually is becoming aroused from the tickling. While it is quite amusing and to be perfectly honest… a little cute… it poses a dilemma for me. How do you torture someone who likes it?

I first encountered such a subject three months into my career as an interrogator. And unfortunately for this young man… I also discovered the perfect way to circumvent the problem.

“13, send in the Buffer, please.” I stop tickling and await confirmation.

“As you wish, Number 7.” I hear her comply.




The Buffer? What the Hell does that mean? I am a bit upset that Number 7 stopped what she was doing. I was really enjoying it. There are a few minutes of awkward silence before the door opens and I see a gorgeous and incredibly well endowed woman walk in. She is wearing a pink tee shirt that is cut to reveal her abdomen and a pair of Daisy Dukes. Her blonde hair and blue eyes add to the overall high levels of sex appeal that she carries with her.

“Hi, there.” She said to me with a wide grin.




I know that her name is Lisa. But that is between me and her. I will never call her by her actual name while we are within these walls. Lisa is a professional, like myself. But our areas of expertise are somewhat different. While I have extensive study and experience in the art of tickle torture, her interests revolve more around sexual fetishism. I don’t know much about her before her college years, but I would have to guess that she was the kind of girl in high school that used to make guys cry. I do know that once she got to college, she was very successful. Now, at the age of 25, she has degrees in Human Behavior, Human Sexuality, and most importantly, Abnormal Behavior. The woman knows more about sexual fetishism than anyone I have ever met.

After my first experience interrogating a tickling fetishist, I went to 13 and pitched the idea of having a buffer. Tickling is, after all, a form of physical stimulation. Most people can become aroused if you tickle near their breasts or groin. But if the person being tickled actually wants the torment to continue well… it’s like trying to pull fingernails off of a mannequin or use knives on a brick wall. The act itself loses all meaning.

I was brought in to evaluate all of the potential candidates for the position once 13 approved it. I sat in with and interviewed many women. Lisa was the only one to have that lethal combination of beauty, sex appeal, intelligence, and enthusiasm. I have had her assist me around 11 times in the last half a year and she is very effective at what she does.




“Hey there, guy.” The blonde moves over to the table and sits on the left side of it. I can barely take my eyes off of her. Without saying anything else, she pulls on her tee shirt, tugging and lifting it up over her head and dropping it to the tiled floor. They have to be at least G cups, I figure as I watch her bounce a little to make them dance in her bra in front of my eyes. As if I wasn’t already excited enough from being tickled. Torture? Hell… this might be the most fun I have had in recent memory. “Is there a reason you don’t wanna tell us what we wanna know?” She asks without even a hint of malevolence or threat. In fact, she sounds like a big sister or maybe a babysitter, as if there is genuine concern for my well being. Before I can think of anything that would even resemble a legitimate response, she asks another question. “My friend over here is very good at what she does, isn’t she? Come on, you can tell me the truth. You like being tickled, don’t you?”

She has me blushing for sure, but I nod yes.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, you know.” The blonde woman says. She then turns to the woman in the lab and nods. Number 7 gets back to work, now softly touching my toes.

“Hahahahahahahaha…”

“Say, you’re pretty ticklish.” The blonde says in a tone that almost suggests that she is impressed. “I bet all kinds of girls had fun with you when you were growing up, huh? I know that if I had known a boy half as ticklish as you when I was a teen, I would have tickled him out of his mind. It’s just so much fun… making someone laugh.”




It is hard not to smile as I listen to what Lisa says to him. This is all very calculated. She doesn’t want him to feel as though he is being tortured. Quite the opposite. She wants him to think about it. To focus on it.

To enjoy it.

This is because once he gets too excited, he will achieve orgasm. The aim of the game won’t be to make him laugh anymore. It will be to drain him so completely that he will do anything for us to let him rest. Instead of merely indulging his fetish, Lisa and I will work together to exploit it well past his breaking point. She and I have danced this dance before. I’m the touch. She’s the mouth. He’ll listen to her while I tickle him. He’ll do this because he wants to. My fingernails flutter up his calves. He looks uncomfortable, but not ticklish. I touch his knees as if I am reaching into an oven to briefly see if the dinner rolls inside are hot enough. This is a more sensitive area and he snickers and shakes his legs.




“Oh, the knees are bad, aren’t they?” The blonde winces as she observes and then looks back to me. “You know, a lot of boys who are super ticklish like you are don’t like to be tickled. But you know what they hate even more?” She leaned in as if to whisper a big secret to me… “Being at the mercy of a beautiful woman who DOESN’T tickle them.”

At this point, the blonde looks to Number 7, who obediently stops tickling. I grunt as if I had been receiving an amazing blow job that had just randomly ceased. The blonde leans in towards me with a hand partially covering her mouth, as if she wants to reveal something only to me.

“Ever had your junk tickled before?”




Now, it may come as a surprise… but most guys have never had their genitals tickled before. Whaaaat? I know… that’s the general response. But the truth is that if a guy is not a virgin, he has been jerked, blown, fondled… but how many women actually check to see if a man’s genitals are ticklish? Girls out there… be honest with yourselves. Have you ever tried to tickle a penis before? I doubt it…

Something tells me that this is going to get a lot more interesting…
 
Delicious and brilliant! Thank you for posting and looking forward to the continuation!
 
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