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A MATTER OF HONOR: A Tickle Street Story

Strelnikov

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A MATTER OF HONOR: Tickle Street Chapter 9

by Strelnikov
Copyright 2003 by the author


Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance)

Nicole Wade
A little beauty, 20 years old, with crystal blue eyes and bright blonde hair, and a very trim and shapely body. Very serious, a first-born overachiever. She’s a Sophomore Pre-Med major at Commonwealth University, a long drive away from Tieson City. Extremely ticklish, but not a participant in the Tickle Street action – she had a bad experience in high school, and thinks the other girls are weirdos.

Candice Wade
Nicole’s 18-year-old sister, an extrovert and sensualist, the flip side of her sister’s sober-sides personality. A little shorter than her sister, with ash blonde hair, but the two girls have the same cute shape, delicate features and crystal blue eyes. Loves to be tickled and get in ticklish situations, but if the tickling goes too far, she's out of control. Lately her lust to be tickled has grown and grown, and now she'll do anything to get tickled. She's lived on Tickle Street since she was five.

Ashley Haviland
A first-year grad student and teaching assistant in the Math department at CU, 23 years old. She has an orderly mind and a serious nature, much like her neighbor Nicole. She’s a small girl, fit and trim, with short dark blonde hair, cool gray eyes and a lifeguard tan. She’s also insanely ticklish, but hates the loss of control from being tickled. Her two younger sisters are undergrads at CU.

Stacy Haviland
The easy-going middle sister, 21 years old, a CU Junior majoring in Restaurant Management. Her physique is like her older sister’s, and she’s every bit as ticklish. She’s a brunette with shoulder length hair and soft brown eyes. Her younger sister Shelly lives on campus, in a CU Freshman dorm.

Clarice Witciewicz
A 19-year-old salesclerk at a shoe store in the local mall who likes to frequent the campus and its night spots. She’s blonde and blue-eyed, maybe five feet tall, with a solidly Rubenesque figure, a page bob over her cherubic features and cerulean (indeed!) lipstick and fingernails.

Dominique Harad
Almost 19, lovely in an exotic way, rail thin with olive skin and dark eyes. She wears her long, jet black hair in a pony tail, and is usually clad entirely noir. An Algerian born citizen of France, nearly two years earlier she had been exiled by her parents to live with relatives in America, apparently to foil an indiscreet romance. Now of legal age, she has made other living arrangements and receives a remittance from home.

Vicky and Veronica Righetti
They’re "mirror twins" - identical, but Vicky, the leader, is a lefty (Latin “sinister”) and Veronica is right handed. They’re 20 years old, medium height, with very trim and fit figures that they maintain by martial arts. They have shoulder length wavy dark hair, dark brows and lashes, brown eyes. They’re extremely ticklish, but since they’re a team, they don’t get tickled much.

Brittany Righetti
Vicky and Veronica’s younger sister. Brittany is 18 years old and has lived on Tickle Street all of her life. She has long, dark hair and brown eyes, a beautiful Italian face and features, curves in all the right places. She has a bit of an attitude, but it can quickly be destroyed if she's tickled. She's by far the most ticklish person on Tickle Street.


********************


Nicole’s car was an older-model green Saturn, clean and well maintained. She parked it in the driveway and sat for a moment, thinking. It was the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, and she was home from college for the holiday. Her younger sister came outside to greet her. Nicole had missed Candice, and had been looking forward to spending time with her Little Sis.

They carried Nicole’s gear indoors. There wasn’t much – a few books, but mostly laundry that she could wash at home for free.

Nicole wasn’t one to share her problems with others. Her mind was orderly, meticulous, always very much under control – someday she would become a superb surgeon. But she almost confided in Candice that evening, because Candice had… special expertise.

Candice’s personality was the flip side of her own. The younger sister was an extroverted sensualist who loved (among other things) the sensation of being tickled. That part was weird, but Nicole loved Candice and accepted it. The two had made an arrangement years ago: Candice refrained from tickling Nicole, and in return, Nicole tickled her weird little sister silly at least once a week. Upper body tickling made Nicole queazy – she was something of a touch-me-not, and projected that onto others – but foot tickling suited Candice just fine. Nicole didn’t really mind, because Candice so obviously enjoyed it. Nicole had a surgeon’s dexterity, and had acquired a high level of skill over the years.

But such opportunities were restricted to summers and holidays now. Presumably, Candice had made other arrangements for the rest of the time. Sara maybe – the two had been best friends since kindergarten.

The sisters sat on the couch in their pajamas that evening, not really watching some lame perennial holiday special: “Bite The Bird, Charlie Brown” or some such. Nicole had just about decided to open up when Candice playfully poked her in the ribs.

Nicole sighed. “OK, Candice,” she said. “Give ‘em here.”

Candice kicked off her slippers – warm feet were much more ticklish than cold ones – and turned sideways on the couch. They positioned themselves with Candice’s ankles resting on Nicole’s right thigh, Nicole’s left thigh over her sister’s shins with the left foot tucked behind the right calf to lock the leg in place. Candice grinned with happy anticipation.

As always, Nicole started off slowly, flicking and teasing, producing a steady stream of little giggles. Her tickling fingers picked up speed, and solid laughter mixed in with the giggles. And then Nicole went after the sweet spot, where it really, really tickled. She held Candice’s toes back with her left hand, made a Peace sign with her right, and used the two fingernails to scratch the exact center of Candice’s stretched out soles, along the creases, and onto the arches just behind. Candice threw her head back and laughed like mad.

Nicole kept tickling as Candice laughed and laughed. Candice would get along fine with my neighbors, she thought, and they would love her. What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?

***

The sisters started their Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving. Squander Mall was wall to wall people, the food court was packed when Nicole offered to treat Candice to a Fourbucks Coffee. They passed the Righetti twins, Vicky and Veronica, who were taking their lunch break from their sales jobs. The twins grinned evilly and made tickling motions at Nicole. She flinched, averted her eyes and moved on.

Nicole had gone to high school with them, and had attended a graduation pool party at their house. She had been the last guest to leave, because they had bushwhacked her in the pool house and tickled her for more than an hour. They were fiendish, inventive and enthusiastic ticklers. It was an experience she tried not to think about.

Candice saw the incident in the food court, but said nothing. She had already noticed that Nicole seemed distracted, as though she had something on her mind. Later, at home, she knocked on the door to Nicole’s room.

“Mind if I come in?” she asked. “You’re jumpy, sis, and something’s bothering you. What is it? Can I help?”

“Come in and close the door,” Nicole replied. And then she took a deep breath and told all, from the beginning.

***

Nicole parked the Saturn in front of the building and got out. The place was a tall old Queen Anne that had been built as a private home in the 1880’s, when the Cabot Woolen Goods Mill was the source of the town’s wealth. There was a weedy postage-stamp front lawn, a slightly larger back yard, and a carriage house that had once had servants’ quarters upstairs. The old Victorian had been renovated with an eye to economy and low maintenance – aluminum siding, roofed with huge interlocking barn shingles – but it was still possible to see what it once had been.

The Mill was long gone – the Old Mill Mall was on its former site now. The architect had done a half-ass job of incorporating 19th Century elements in the exterior design. The jobs had paused for two generations in North Carolina, on their way south to Honduras. These days, Commonwealth University was the biggest employer in town.

The wealth had disappeared during the Depression. The house had stood vacant from the mid-1930’s through early 1942, when it was roughly chopped up into apartments for war workers. It had housed returning veterans after the war, attending the University on G. I. Bill scholarships. Since then, it had provided temporary homes for generations of students. The apartments were rented furnished – abandoned furniture had accumulated over the years, and the landlord had kept the best of it.

Nicole had Apartment 3B, a tiny attic efficiency that had been a maid’s room when the building was a private home. It was located off a landing at the top of the service stairs leading up from the former kitchen, now a common laundry room. Apartment 3A, the matching room across the landing, was uninhabitable. Eric Vita, one of the Seniors in Apartment 1A, had told her that the landlord had tinkered ineffectually with 3A’s plumbing problems for years.

Her apartment had a closet sized bathroom with a claw-foot tub, a hissing toilet, and a medicine chest with a cloudy mirror over the chipped sink. There was a tiny galley kitchen with dented steel cabinets of 1940’s vintage, a compact refrigerator, a 2-burner range whose oven might accommodate a cupcake. There were two bar stools – the counter did double duty as a dining room table. There wasn’t room for much else. A bed and a nightstand. A dresser/wardrobe instead of a closet, the sort rural Southerners call a “chifforobe” – it was original to the house, and weighed as much as a piano. An armchair, a side table, mismatched lamps, milk crate bookshelves, a small table she had bought at the thrift store to hold her TV. That was it.

The apartment was right under the roof, and stifling hot. She banged on the single window and managed to open it. Outside was a rusty fire escape ladder that led down to the roof of a side porch. The open window didn’t help much, as there wasn’t a breath of wind. Memo to self: buy a fan.

She unloaded her gear from the car and carried it up. It didn’t take long. She had just her clothes, her computer, a few books, a small TV/VCR combo, a boom box CD player, a microwave oven. The microwave was a low wattage model – the wiring was archaic, anything bigger would surely blow a fuse.

She unpacked, changed into jeans shorts and a blue tank top, stepped into her sandals. She planned to say hello to her neighbors, read for a while on the front porch, do fast food for dinner, and swing by K-Mart for the fan on the way home.

Back down the stairs. She paused at the closed door on the second floor landing. There were two women about her age in 2A, two guys about 30 in 2B. She had seen them but they hadn’t actually met. She continued down to the laundry room. Maybe she would see if Eric was in, or his room-mates Nathan Rimerman and Jon Brooks.

She found the guys from 2B in the laundry room, washing clothes and passing a doobie back and forth. They introduced themselves as Jason and Ryan – no last names – judging from their condition, they might have forgotten them. They said they worked a succession of slacker jobs, video rental stores and the like. ”Mi casa es su casa,” they told her. They never locked their door, had lost the keys years ago, had nothing worth stealing anyway. Come in any time, they said – if we’re not there, make yourself at home and we’ll be back eventually.

She politely refused the joint, glanced out the window, saw two young women sunning themselves on a blanket laid on the weed-grown grass. She excused herself and went out to make their acquaintance.

Her neighbors in 2A were Ashley and Stacy Haviland, the older two of a trio of sisters. They were from a small town in northwest Maine, hard up against the border with Canada’s Quebec Province. Ashley was 23, a first-year grad student and teaching assistant in the CU Math department. She was small, fit and shapely in her red bikini, with short dark blonde hair and cool gray eyes. Her tan was magnificent – she had worked the past summer as a lifeguard at a beach resort. Stacy was a 21-year-old Junior majoring in Food Service Management, who worked part time as a waitress and manager trainee at the local Persian restaurant. She was a brunette with soft brown eyes, built like her sister, wearing a bright orange bikini. They told Nicole their younger sister Shelly was living in a Freshman dorm on campus.

She considered joining them but didn’t feel like making another trip up the stairs for her own bikini. The sun was bad for the skin anyway. She excused herself, passed back through the building again to the wide front porch. The seniors in 1A were out, it seemed, and 1B was still vacant, the door standing open. She went out onto the porch, sat in a plastic mock-Adirondack chair and kicked off her sandals. She propped her feet on the railing and settled in to read.

Nicole was trying to decide whether to start another chapter when the car drove up – a clapped-out Eldosaurus with a blown muffler and sagging back bumper – and stopped with a grating sound of worn out brakes. It was a beater, all over dings and rust, the engine running on 7 out of its 8 cylinders. The exhaust looked like the car was burning coal.

Two young women got out and started pulling big green plastic leaf bags out of the back seat – the trunk lid was wired shut. Poor man’s Samsonite, Nicole thought to herself. Maybe these are the new neighbors moving into 1B.

She studied them. One was blonde and blue-eyed, maybe five feet tall, with a solidly Rubenesque figure, a page bob over her cherubic features and cerulean (indeed!) lipstick and fingernails. She wore a red tank top, tight jeans and Doc Marten boots. The other was taller, lovely in an exotic way, rail thin with olive skin and dark eyes. She wore her long, jet black hair in a pony tail, and was clad entirely noir – long sleeve pullover, leather miniskirt, nylons, heavy leather sandals. Both appeared to be about 18 or 19 years old.

Each grabbed a bag and headed into the building. They made three trips, then paused on the porch steps to take a break.

“Hi,” Nicole said. “I’m Nicole Wade – I live in 3B. I’m a student at CU.”

“I’m Clarice Witciewicz,” the blonde replied. “I work at Jobelle’s Shoes, in the Old Mill Mall. This is Dominique Harad. She’s a lady of leisure.”

Dominique grinned, then reached out quickly and playfully tickled Nicole’s feet. Nicole gasped, pulled them back and nearly upset the chair.

”Mon dieu, you’re touchy,” Dominique said.

“Aw, knock it off,” Clarice said. “Let’s get the rest of this shit indoors, and then we’ll have a cool one. Care to join us, Nicole?”

“Sure – why not?” Nicole replied. She slipped her sandals back on, stood up. “It will go faster if I help.”

Nicole joined them in their apartment when they finished, and Clarice opened a Bud Long Neck. Nicole accepted a glass of wine from Dominique – nothing fancy, the sort blue-collar Frenchmen drank with meals, but a cut above the Tank Car Special most students drank. They reintroduced themselves, in greater detail. Nicole noticed that Dominique said little about her background, but she had the impression that the girl’s family was paying her an allowance, on condition that she stayed away from home. Well, that’s none of my business, Nicole thought.

They had another round. Nicole politely declined a third glass of wine – she was starting to feel a buzz. Clarice was actually two beers ahead – she drank faster, and had shotgunned one down in the kitchen beforehand – and was definitely feeling it. She took offense.

“What’s the matter, Nicole? A college girl like you is too good to drink with us townies?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Clarice! It’s just… Well, I’m going out for dinner, and I’ve had enough to drink for now.”

“Whatever,” said Clarice. “If you won’t drink with us, maybe you can sing for us instead.”

“I think I’d better leave,” said Nicole, and stood up.

“Not so fast,” Dominique said, and they jumped Nicole and bulldogged her down to the floor. With two-to-one odds, the outcome had never been in doubt. Nicole ended up on her tummy, with Clarice sitting on her waist facing aft. She had Nicole’s legs in a classic figure-four leg lock.

“Check it out,” Clarice said. “Looks like the time I spent watching WWF didn’t go to waste.”

Dominique stood up and took stock of herself. “Merde,” she said with feeling. “I’ve ruined these stockings. Another $5.99 down the drain.”

“You’re crazy – both of you! Let me GO!” shouted Nicole. She bucked violently, nearly unseating Clarice.

“Hey Dominique – a little help?” said Clarice.

Dominique kicked off her sandals and skinned out of the torn nylons. “Here,” she said. “Let’s hogtie her.”

Nicole struggled, but to no avail, as the two did just that.

Dominique flipped off Nicole’s sandals, exposing her perfect pink feet. “This was my idea, and my nylons, so I get to go first.” She kneeled and sat back on her heels, and spider-walked her fingernails across Nicole’s exposed soles. Nicole drew her breath in sharply, gritted her teeth and strained against the bonds. Dominique switched to drawing figure-eight’s on Nicole’s arches, and Nicole struggled silently, eyes closed, trying desperately not to laugh. Then little flicks on Nicole’s toes – she was breathing harder now, teeth clenched.

“I don’t think she’s ticklish,” said Clarice.

“Oh, yes she is,” said Dominique. “You think you can hold out? I’ll make you sing. You’ll laugh before we’re finished, chérie.” She grabbed Nicole’s left foot and scratched a black-polished fingernail between the big and second toes. Nicole made a high, keening sound through clenched teeth.

Clarice rummaged in her purse and produced a hairbrush – the sort with round plastic knobs on the ends of the bristles. “Hey, try this,” she said and tossed it to her friend.

Dominique snatched the brush out of the air and raked the bristles up and down Nicole’s soft bare feet, toes to heels and back again. It was too much for Nicole to bear. She arched her back and laughed at the top of her lungs.

“Wow!” said Clarice. “Keep it up! You’ve got her now!”

Dominique dropped the brush and continued her assault on Nicole’s left foot with her fingernails. With her right, she flicked and scratched her nails down the right sole, down the arch, to the sensitive heel. She tickled relentlessly. Nicole laughed helplessly, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

Dominique varied her technique – she was truly an artist. She used a scrabbling motion that had Nicole laughing wildly. Light flicks with the tips of her nails produced a constant stream of giggles. Then heavier tickling, scratching, drawing circles and figure-eight’s with her nails. She found THE SPOT – along the crease in the exact center of the sole and onto the arch just behind, the same as Candice’s – held Nicole’s toes back and tickled her soles mercilessly. Nicole lapsed into ticklish delirium, laughing like a madwoman. She had lost all power of resistance, or even coherent thought.

“Hey Dominique, save some for me,” Clarice called out. “You’ve been at it for twenty minutes.” She bent down and tickled her friend’s bare feet. Dominique squeaked and jumped, and the tickling stopped.

“Well… OK, Clarice,” Dominique said. “Enjoy yourself!”

Clarice took the position Dominique had vacated. She traced circles in the arches of Nicole’s feet, and Nicole giggled like a little girl. She held Nicole’s toes back and scratched lightly under them, tickling the soft skin, and Nicole laughed like mad. Then down the soles and arches to the ticklish heels, while her victim bucked and squirmed and laughed her head off.

Clarice gave Nicole’s heels a full three minutes of tickle torture. She tickled up the arches to the soles, watching the toes twitch and curl, then held the toes back and tickled the stretched out soles, paying particular attention to THE SPOT. She tickled with both hands, all over, toes to heels and back, over and over, and finally back to THE SPOT again. Nicole laughed and laughed, musically, helplessly, face red, tears streaming.

“Enough,” Dominique said at last. “We will have other… opportunities. Won’t we, chérie?” She produced a Spanish switchblade, clicked it open, cut Nicole’s bonds away.

Nicole laid there gasping. They rolled her over, hauled her to her feet, gave her a push toward the door.

“We’re so happy you came to visit,” Dominique said.

“Come back any time!” Clarice called out cheerfully, and took another pull on her long-neck.

Nicole stumbled out of the apartment. She was half way up the stairs to her own when she remembered her sandals – but she’d be damned if she would go back for them now.

***

That was just the start. Clarice and Dominique made a special project out of tickling Nicole, and always managed somehow to tickle her at least once or twice a week. Once, they found her in the laundry room, tied her up in one of the chairs, and tickled her feet for half an hour. They caught her there again when she was just passing through, and did it again. She took to getting off on the second floor to avoid them, but they ambushed her from the stoner guys empty apartment, dragged her inside and tickled her silly. They grabbed her just inside the front door and got her inside their apartment. That had been a bad one – they had wrapped her tightly in a blanket with just her head and feet sticking out, and tickled her until she thought she would go mad.

She wasn’t their only victim. She heard ticklish laughter from the laundry room one afternoon and slipped downstairs to investigate. Through the slightly open door, she saw Stacy tied up in the tickle chair. Stacy’s dark hair whipped back and forth as she struggled against the bonds, laughing her head off as they tickled her feet.

Another time, she heard laughter from 1B as she was coming home on a Saturday afternoon. She peeked through their ground floor window and saw that they were giving Ashley the blanket-roll treatment. Ashley was on her back on the couch, feet up on the arm, laughing like mad while the two tickled her.

Nicole considered trying to stop them… but they would just have overpowered her and tickle-tortured her too. Stacy had already gone to work to get ready for the dinner crowd. The Senior guys were away attending a job fair – it was a tough time to find a first real job. The stoners were worthless. If she asked them for a hand, they would probably giggle, clap, and take another toke. She went upstairs, feeling guilty. When she came back down an hour later to go out, she was horrified to discover that they were still at it. Dominique spotted Nicole peeking in that time, and winked.

The sisters at least could watch each other’s back. Nicole had no such help. The morning Nicole left for the holiday had been the worst yet. She’d gotten the Blanket Roll again, and Clarice and Dominique kept it up until she was soaked in sweat and her ribs and abs ached from laughing.

Nicole’s story wound down, and she started to cry. Candice hugged her. “Easy… Easy, sis. Remember that kid in my Third Grade class who kept pulling my hair? You beat him up, and he quit. This is the same thing. Rest easy – I’ll handle this.”

***

Nicole did some studying in her room the next day. Candice came for her after a while. “Come on, sis,” she said. “There’s some people downstairs you need to talk to.”

Vicky and Veronica sat side by side on the couch, with their younger sister Brittany perched on the arm. Nicole froze, tried to back away.

Candice stopped her. “Easy, now,” she said. “They’re on our side. Tell them your story.”

When Nicole finished, Brittany asked questions: floor plans, descriptions, work schedules. Satisfied, she turned to the twins. “Well, what do you think?” she asked.

The twins looked at each other, came to silent agreement. “Road trip,” they said in chorus.

“What do you mean?” Nicole asked, confused.

Brittany replied in a hard North Jersey accent right out of “The Sopranos”: “We’re gonna make dose two an offer dey can’t refuse.”

***

It took Nicole a little over seven hours to drive back to school that Sunday. The following Friday, with Vicky driving, the Righetti sisers made the same run in just under five. Vicky circled the block, the black Mustang’s dual exhausts rumbling. It was a little past 9 PM, and the old beater Cadillac was gone. The mall closed at 9:30, and Dominique had left to pick Clarice up at work. They would be back around 10, so that Clarice could change into her partying clothes.

Vicky parked two houses down the block. In a college town, the car with its out-of-state license plates was completely unremarkable, but Vicky was as careful in her own way as Nicole.

Nicole met them at the front door – they had called ahead. She guided them upstairs to 2B. Jason and Ryan were off on a road trip of their own, and wouldn’t be back for a few days. The four girls tied back their hair in preparation for the work ahead, walked through their plan twice.

Brittany heard a car engine, sounding like a bucket of rocks. She checked her watch – 9:55, right on time.

“OK, show time,” she said. The twins took station on either side of the open door, out of sight against the wall. Brittany indicated the kitchen chair that she had placed facing the door. “Sit, Nicole.” She handed Nicole a throw pillow. “Here, grab hold of this. It helps, believe me.”

Footsteps on the porch stairs – time to bait the trap. Nicole stepped out of her backless sneakers, sat, and extended one foot to Brittany. Brittany took hold and dug in, tickling the bare sole. Nicole clutched the pillow, threw her head back and laughed like crazy.

The front door opened – a pause – footsteps on the stairs. Clarice called out “Hey, is this a private party, or can anybody join?” as she and Dominique entered the apartment.

Veronica stepped out behind Dominique, reached around the girl’s shoulders and grabbed the open neck of her partly unzipped black sweat shirt. Veronica yanked backward and down, and the material bunched up around Dominique’s elbows, pinning her arms to her sides. Still holding on, Veronica hooked the girl’s feet out from under her and neatly dropped her face-down on the floor.

Vicky took Clarice down with a grapple, rolled her onto her tummy, grabbed the back of the collar of her open coat, and stripped it off. The girl cursed and struggled. Vicky subdued her with a joint lock, applied slight pressure – just enough to get Clarice’s attention – and Clarice subsided.

Brittany had stopped tickling. Nicole blinked away tears of laughter and marveled. The twins were incredibly fast, and much stronger than they looked. They had made the takedowns look effortless. Clarice and Dominique hadn’t had a chance.

Brittany shook out a small canvas tote, selected a nylon strap – a dog collar, actually – and handed it to Vicky. Vicky slipped it under Clarice’s belt in back, crossed the girl’s wrists over it, strapped them behind her back. She rolled Clarice, sat on her legs, flicked open a balisong, and cut the laces in the Doc Martens. Then back onto the tummy, the boots and socks came off, and Vicky completed the hogtie.

Vicky stood up, stepped over to Veronica and Dominique, and considered briefly. She bent, flipped off Dominique’s sandals, then reached up under the leather miniskirt and grabbed the waist band of the pantyhose. Vicky stripped them off inside-out in one long pull, and the twins hogtied Dominique with her own nylons.

Dominique struggled silently, but Clarice had found her voice again. “Goddammit!” she yelled. “You can’t do this to us! Dominique’s father is an important man in France. He’ll talk to Jacques Chirac, and the whole weight of the world will fall on your ass!”

“Fuck Jacques Chirac,” Brittany said. The North Jersey accent was back in her voice. “You two treated a member of our family wit disrespect. Dat makes dis a matter of honor. We’re gonna teach you some manners.”

“This is about Nicole?” Dominique asked. ”La petite chienne isn’t worth your trouble. Let us go, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Don’t crack wise wit me, bitch! Your show, Nicole. Take your pick.”

Nicole considered. “I’ll warm up on Clarice and save Dominique for later. Join me, Brittany? Vicky and Veronica, help yourselves to Dominique.”

Nicole and Candice kneeled on either side of Clarice’s bound feet, Vicky and Veronica did the same with Dominique. Nicole started tickling hard, heel and arch – no teasing this time – and Clarice burst into helpless laughter. Brittany joined in, tickling between the toes of the other foot, and Clarice bucked and squirmed, laughing at the top of her lungs.

Dominique’s laughter joined Clarice’s. Nicole glanced up. Vicky ran an electric tooth brush between Dominique’s toes, then down onto the sole and around the ball of her foot. Veronica had an old-fashioned badger-bristle shaving brush – it must have once belonged to her grandfather – flicking and dusting the other foot from heel to toe. She held back Dominique’s toes and dusted under them, then onto the stretched out sole, and the girl’s laughter went off the scale.

Remarkable! They’d been very, very good after the pool party, but they had progressed in the last 18 months. They had become the Jedi Masters of tickling.

Nicole gave Clarice her full attention again. Her years of practice on Candice paid off as she tickle tortured the upturned foot. Brittany, she noticed, was nearly as skilled as the twins. Their victim laughed her head off, red faced, tears streaming down her face.

They tickled Clarice for half an hour, giving her just enough short breaks that she never managed to zone out, as Vicky and Veronica gave Dominique the same treatment. Finally, they tickled both girls breathless and took a breather.

“Serves ‘em right!” a Yankee voice called from the open door. Stacy walked in, still in her waitress outfit, scented ever so faintly with lamb kebab and Turkish coffee. Ashley followed, in robe and slippers – she had been getting ready for bed when her sister came home.

“Hi! Come in and join the fun!” Nicole called back. She introduced everyone. Brittany hit it off with the two sisters immediately, suggested they take a turn, made a few helpful suggestions. Stacy kneeled by Clarice, Ashley took Dominique. Nicole settled back on the couch to watch – she might learn something.

The Yankee sisters had a pretty good mastery of technique, she noticed. Nicole didn’t know it, but Ashley, Stacy and little sister Shelly sometimes settled their differences this way. But this was grudge tickling - payback. Especially for Ashley, who had really gotten a working over from the two. Their victims bucked and squirmed and laughed like madwomen as tickling fingernails flew over their sensitive soles.

The sisters tickled Clarice and Dominique for a long time, tickled them into gasping, red faced silent laughter twice, then took a breather of their own.

”S'il vous plaît....arrêtez...” Dominique gasped. “Je n'en peux plus...”

“Hey, check it out!” Stacy said. “We’ve tickled her English right out of her!”

Ashley was still way beyond pissed off. These two had given her the tickling of her life, and had left her gasping, sweaty and humiliated. ”Vous auriez pas dû nous faire chier!” she said angrily. ”Maintenant c'est le temps de payer. On est loin d'avoir fini avec vous!”

”Oh mon dieu…s'il vous plaît...” Dominique begged, in despair.

”Ta gueule!” Ashley snarled. ”Tout ce que je veux entendre de toi c'est du RIRE! Guili guili guili, espèce de bitch!” Her tickling fingers scrabbled in Dominique’s arches, and the girl burst into helpless ticklish laughter again.

Nicole turned to Stacy. “Hey, I didn’t know your sister speaks French.”

“Ayuh, back home, we all do,” Stacy replied, her Down East accent a little stronger than Ashley’s. “We all have family on both sides of the border.” To her sister: ”Heille, la soeur! Magane-la pas trop! Garde-en pour nous autres!”

Ashley stopped tickling. Stacy was right, the bitch did need a breather, and they had plenty of time. But she let Dominique know that there was more coming. ”C'est LOIN d'être fini,” she said.

The tickling resumed after a five minute break. Nicole and Brittany had Dominique this time, while the twins tickled Clarice. Brittany produced a ball point pen and said to Nicole, “We call these “foot notes.” Tickles like mischief. Watch.”

She held back the toes on Dominique’s right foot and wrote, very small, across the sensitive skin under the toes, as ticklish laughter poured out of her victim. She dotted the “i”’s with little circles. Nicole looked and saw: “I will not tickle Nicole ever again.”

Brittany handed the pen to Nicole. “Your turn.” And as Nicole wrote on the left foot, Brittany tickled the exact same place on the right.

They passed the pen back and forth, one writing, the other tickling with her nails. They drew the process out, while Dominique laughed helplessly. They found her SPOT – on the balls of the feet, under the big toes – carefully underlined each word, drew daisy petals around the circle-dots on the “i”’s. Dominique wasn’t struggling any more - all resistance had been tickled out of her. All she could do was lay there and laugh - and laugh – and laugh some more.

Clarice got her share of attention too. Vicky and Veronica gave a tutorial for Ashley and Stacy: one- and two-finger techniques, whole hand, two-handed, the proper use of various implements. Clarice laughed wildly, helplessly. She, too, had had the fight tickled right out of her.

Nicole finished the last line, they had run out of space to write. She and Brittany went back to THE SPOT, darkened the letters written there, finished with four-handed fingernail tickling. Dominique laughed herself breathless once again.

Time for another breather. Brittany and the twins went to the Mustang and brought their gear upstairs.

Ashley and Stacy were tickling again when they returned. Ashley used the shaving brush in Clarice’s arches, switched to pulling string between her toes, moved on to the ever-reliable fingernails. Stacy had gotten some soapy water, and was trying to scrub the ink off Dominique’s feet with the electric tooth brush. She wasn’t having much success, but the extra lubrication made the brush tickle even more – she’d learned that from Veronica, the foot tickler of the pair – and she was satisfied with the results. Both victims laughed their heads off. Nicole just sat on the couch, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

It was midnight, straight up. Time to turn Clarice and Dominique loose with a can tied to their tails. Brittany put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. She made a throat-cutting gesture, and Ashley and Stacy reluctantly quit.

Veronica undid the straps that held Clarice, Vicky produced the balisong again and cut Dominique loose. The twins hauled the two to their feet, stood behind them gripping their upper arms to steady them. Brittany regarded them coolly.

“Alright, listen up!” she said. The “Soprano” was back again. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse. My associates here will hold da front door open for you while you carry your shit out to your car.” She paused, then continued with steel in her voice. “Don’t come back here no more. If you do… we’ll pay you another visit. Capisce?

They nodded miserably.

“Then beat your feet!”

Clarice and Dominique headed downstairs as fast as they could – their ribs and abs ached from laughing. Nicole threw their shoes down the stairs after them. For a while, there was a lot of scurrying and banging in 1B, and then they started carrying their gear out to the curb. Vicky and Veronica stood at the door, holding it open as promised. The Cadillac cranked up on the second try and rolled off in a cloud of black smoke.

“Thanks, everyone!” Nicole said. “I owe you, big time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brittany said in her normal voice. “This was fun. Wasn’t it?”

Vicky and Veronica nodded, grinning.

“Where are you staying?” Stacy asked. “There isn’t room in Nicole’s place for all of you.”

“In the apartment we were using, I guess,” Brittany replied, wrinkling her nose.

“Stay with us!” Ashley said. “I can double up with Stacy, Vicky and Veronica can have my bed, you can sleep on the couch.”

“You just said the secret word,” Brittany said, wiggling her dark eyebrows, twirling an imaginary cigar in her fingers: Groucho Marx this time.

Stacy and the visitors changed into their night shirts. Nicole changed too, and came downstairs in robe and slippers. Ashley opened a bottle of wine she had been saving for a special occasion – this certainly qualified – and it turned into a party. They killed the bottle while they relived their triumph. Stacy opened a second bottle, not as good as the first, but it would do.

“Brittany, that Sopranos act was priceless!” Ashley said. Her Down East accent, faint before, was stronger now that she had been drinking.

“She’s talented that way,” Vicky replied.

“Ayuh, I’m a crackerjack!” Brittany answered in a much-exaggerated Maine accent. Ashley and Stacy laughed, delighted. It was the sort of thing their grandfather might have said.

“But Brittany isn’t really a soprano,” Veronica said. She was sitting on the couch on one side of Nicole, Vicky on the other, like bookends. She stood and walked around to her twin, who extended her bare foot.

Veronica took hold of the foot and tickled THE SPOT, on the arch just in front of the heel. Vicky arched her back and laughed wildly, howling with forced mirth. “See, Vicky and I are contraltos.” She demonstrated for a while more, maybe a minute, then stopped and walked over to Brittany in the armchair.

Brittany extended her foot, and Veronica continued the demonstration. Brittany’s SPOT was the same as the twins. She laughed at the top of her lungs as Veronica said, “Brittany is a mezzo-soprano. So are you two. Listen!”

After another minute, Veronica ended her ticklish demonstration and resumed her seat beside Nicole.

“Nicole, now…”

Nicole was slow on the uptake – she had finished her third glass of wine, and was thinking about having another. The twins lunged downward, each grabbed one of Nicole’s ankles, and they stood up together, flipping off her slippers as they did. Nicole wound up on her back, both feet in the air, each ankle in the grip of one of the twins. God, they were fast!

“…is a true soprano,” Veronica went on as both girls attacked Nicole’s SPOT, tickling the exact center of her soles and onto the arch behind. Nicole’s musical soprano laugh filled the room. “Hear the difference?”

OH GHOD! Not THE SPOT! They remembered THE SPOT!

Nicole struggled briefly, then just laid there and laughed. They could tickle her with her blessing, she thought as she drifted into ticklish delirium, laughing her head off. They had done her a huge favor. She owed them. She paid her debts. It was a matter of honor.


***THE END***




For those who came in late, links to the other stories in this series are here:
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=30219
 
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Afterword...

Clarice and Dominique first appeared in Capt. Spalding’s “Sabbatickle”, posted elsewhere on this forum. The descriptions are his, more or less verbatim. They are used with his kind permission.

Video producer Francois Arsenault (http://www.thelastlaughinc.com) provided French-language dialog to my specifications – merci beaucoup, mon ami. The meaning should be fairly obvious from context. The linguistically astute may have noticed that Ashley and Stacy speak a different variety of French than Dominique. Their québécois French compares to Dominique’s Parisian French, the way Paul Hogan as Crocodile Dundee compares to Patrick Stewart as Captain Picard. For the linguistically challenged, here’s the scene between Ashley and Dominique again. The French dialog is in italics.

***

The sisters tickled Clarice and Dominique for a long time, tickled them into gasping, red faced silent laughter twice, then took a breather of their own.

”Please…no more…” Dominique gasped. “I can’t take any more...”

“Hey, check it out!” Stacy said. “We’ve tickled her English right out of her!”

Ashley was still way beyond pissed off. These two had given her the tickling of her life, and had left her gasping, sweaty and humiliated. ”You two shouldn’t have pissed us off!” she said angrily. ”Now it’s payback time! We’re nowhere close to finished with you!”

”Oh God…please…” Dominique begged, in despair.

”Shut up!” Ashley snarled. ”All I want to hear out of you is LAUGHING! Kitchey koo, bitch!” Her tickling fingers scrabbled in Dominique’s arches, and the girl burst into helpless ticklish laughter again.

Nicole turned to Stacy. “Hey, I didn’t know your sister speaks French.”

“Ayuh, back home, we all do,” Stacy replied, her Down East accent a little stronger than Ashley’s. “We all have family on both sides of the border.” To her sister: ”Hey sis! Go easy on her! Save some for the rest of us!”

Ashley stopped tickling. Stacy was right, the bitch did need a breather, and they had plenty of time. But she let Dominique know that there was more coming. ”This is FAR from over,” she said.

***

The errors, of course, are mine. Hope you enjoyed the story.


Strelnikov
 
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THAT'LL teach those two!

<p>I HAD warned Clarice and Dominique: STAY home in The Vellication Irregulars' Universe! DON'T go wandering into the Tickle Street series.<p> <p> Do they listen to me? Of course they DON'T! They INSIST that the Tickle Street bunch are a bunch of giggling pushovers, <p> <p>Thank you, Strel, for setting them straight--and giving them the tickling that I as their pussy-whupped creator wouldn't dare!<p>
<p> With each chapter, your TS characters are getting rounder and firmer--and thus the tickling is more fun. I loved the way you used
guests Clarice and 'Nik--and found myself rooting for Nicole and pals to counteract their reign of terror. And I adored your bilingual teasing: tickling is even more sexy in French! <p>

<p> It's time that Myriads gathered your story posts, Strel, and gave you a well-deserved place in the Favorite Authors Forum. 🙂<p>
 
Sweet!

Every time I see you've posted, my heart skips a beat. Your foot tickling sequences are to be admired. May your pen NEVER run out of ink.
 
Wonderfully written, Strel. Thanks for sharing! I say we produce the TV series....(cable of course!)


Ray
 
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