KITTLETOWN TWO
by Max Speer
CHAPTER TEN
Doctor Armstrong's Tickle Therapy
The psychiatrist had been briefed. He had been to Kittletown. He had met Dr. Gregory. He knew the plan.
Dr. Armstrong's lush office was in the heart of Atlanta. His reputation in the South was impeccable, with many years of service to the mental health community.
But Dr. Armstrong knew that this was the year that the plan was destined to blossom. He knew that there were others, snaking their way throughout the United States. He was well aware of the plan to infiltrate every aspect of American life with the idea that Tickling was healthy, exciting, sexy, and the wave of the future. Now was that future.
Dr. Gregory's plan was that the reputable Dr. Armstrong was to introduce it as a viable weapon in the war against mental illness. He was already scheduled to appear on Sally, Montel, and Rosie.
Today, he was to present this alternative, yet progressive treatment to his patients. But it was no coincidence that Dr. Armstrong's first 'guinea pig' was young and beautiful.
Whitney walked into his office on schedule. She was anxious as she laid her purse on the floor and sat in the overstuffed leather chair.
"When do we start this new therapy?" she asked nervously.
"Today."
"What does it entail?"
The Doctor side-stepped and avoided a direct answer. "Whitney, you have been suffering from depression for almost a year now. Traditionally, medication is prescribed for cases such as yours.
"But there is a new form of therapy that has proved highly successful. I would like to try this out on you. Do you trust me, Whitney?"
The girl nodded. She was very cute: shining green eyes, and light brown hair with blonde streaks. At 21, she was too brilliant for her own good. Maintaining a 4.0 average at the University was taxing, emotionally.
"Go into the other room, Whitney. There is a shirt and pants I want you to wear. You have to trust me. It's all part of the therapy."
Whitney was taken aback when she was told to don some other sort of clothing. At least I don't have to be nude, she thought.
This is very weird, but I guess I have to trust the doctor.
Is that what I have to wear? This little midriff/tank top, and these little shorts? I wonder if I can keep my shoes on. Oh, well, I feel like taking them off anyway.
It feels good getting out of these clothes. Wow, this tank top is short. I wonder how he knew my size. I wonder if other girls have to do this?
There's a mirror over there. Good, I'm glad I shaved today; my legs and my underarms. I'd be so embarrassed.
Well, what'll I do now?
Whitney knocked on the door and peaked in. Dr. Armstrong was absolutely sweating with anticipation. He saw a bare shoulder appear, followed by Whitney's sweet face.
"Do you want me in here?"
"Come, come, Whitney. Sit back on the chair."
The young woman sat on the chair. The doctor was aghast. He had never seen such a beauty. She could easily make herself rich as a fashion model. That would get rid of her depression, he chuckled to himself.
She sat in the chair and crossed her legs, self-consciously. Dr. Armstrong watched her bare foot dangle and bob.
"Now, Whitney. You have to trust me. Your mental health is the most important goal right now. Are you ready?"
The woman nodded.
The doctor walked to the young woman and reached under the armrests. He produced two straps and strapped her wrists securely. Then he reached around the back and strapped her waist to the chair. Bending with some difficulty, he managed to produce two straps to bind her ankles to the legs of the chair.
Whitney bit her lip and refused to speak. She was frightened but she kept repeating, "trust trust trust" over and over again, like a mantra.
The doctor went back to his desk and opened a drawer. There was an instrument panel in the drawer. He flipped a switch and the girl's chair started to recline. As it reclined, though, the legs extended outward and the armrests raised. The entire chair actually unfolded.
When it had reached it's maximum extension with a click, Whitney was lying on a slight incline, spread-eagled.
Trust trust trust.
The Mad Doctor got up from his desk and leaned very close to Whitney. She smelled cigar on his breath.
"Now, Whitney, you must trust me the most. As I said before, your health is the most important thing we must think about. Whatever happens now is for your own good. Understand?"
The poor girl could barely speak. She was petrified. She could only gulp and nod.
Doctor Armstrong began his therapy by touching Whitney's bare arms gently, right above the elbow crook. The frightened girl tensed. She still was completely unaware of what was about to happen. He slid his fingers, slowly, lightly, and deliberately down towards her armpits. The skin felt softer to him as he neared her armpits.
But from the moment the doctor began drawing his fingertips on her arm, Whitney knew instantly what she was about to endure. Tickling! She strained to fight but could not. The girl squirmed into the chair and tried the straps, but no escape was possible. Her worst fears were realized. Whitney was utterly and completely ticklish. Then she remembered that she had confessed her fears of being held down and tickled many months before to Doctor Armstrong. He was using that information. He knew that tickling was absolute torture for her.
The fingertips on her inner arms tickled dreadfully, and Whitney began to giggle. The doctor loved hearing Whitney's girlish giggling. He could not have hoped for a better treat. He had watched her sitting across from his every week. Every week she complained of depression. When the weather was warmer she would sit in his office wearing a tank top or sleeveless dress. Many times she would remove her shoes and put her feet up.
All she needs is a good tickling, he would think as he watched her, drooling silently to himself.
Then he met Dr. Gregory and his life changed.
Whitney felt the fingers moving towards her armpits. She was petrified as she giggled uncontrollably. The fingers were now on the outer edges of her highly sensitive armpits, and she started to squeal.
"DON'T DON'T!!!!!" She screamed. "I'LL DIE!! DIE!!!! PLEASE. I'M CURED. REALLY. DON'T TICKLE MY UNDERARMS. PLEASE!!!!!!!!"
"Now, now, Whitney. This is for your own good."
The doctor had an aching hard-on as he slipped his fingers down into the warm, smooth hollows of the ticklish girl's armpits. He played the soft, sensitive skin as if his fingers were horse legs, galloping. Up and down, his fingers lifted and fell, tickling the young girl's highly ticklish underarms.
Whitney screamed then, no sound emerged from her gaping mouth. A twisted grimace gave way to the soundless laugh. This was the ace-in-the-hole for all tickling fanatics. Seeing a woman, who is that ticklish, tickled and laughing silently is like nirvana.
The silence gave way, however to the hysterical laughter. This was the icing on the cake, and the evil doctor couldn't help but laugh right along.
"Tickle tickle tickle tickle tickle," the doctor teased as his fingers tickled up and down her bare, beautiful arms, and down into her deliciously ticklish underarms.
"PLEEEEEEEASSEEE!!!!! HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!!! DON'T TICKLEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEE!!!!!!!! HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! STOP IT HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!!!!!! NO NO NOOOOO!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!! the poor girl pleaded through her hysterics.
The doctor lifted his fingers and brought them down to her warm sides and let his hands come to rest.
Whitney was still giggling as she realized what was coming next. "Oh no no!!!! Don't tickle my ribs. Not my ribs. Please don't!!!!"
The doctor listened to her pleas and let them work deep inside his sexual excitement. Then he gently allowed a finger to play against her sensitive ribs like alternating piano notes.
The ticklish girl went absolutely crazy as she screamed, squealed and giggled. She twisted violently against the chair and her fingers clawed the air. Her laughter was non-ceasing. She has remarkable lung capacity, the doctor thought, medically, as he tickled his way up and down the soft, feminine sides of this beautiful and deliciously ticklish girl.
The doctor moved his fingers up and down her sides, into the warmth of her ticklish underarms, and Whitney let off a higher series of squeals.
"NO! NO! NO! NOOOOOO!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA PLEEEEEASE!!! DON'T TICKLE ME THERE!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!"
The doctor loved watching the girl writhe and twist; the lovely, young face exploding in girlish laughter. He tickled her soft, sensitive armpits and let his wriggling fingers travel up and down her arms. When he found the very core of her ticklishness, a tiny area in the center of her armpits, he dropped his other fingers and just allowed the index fingers of each hand to concentrate there, tickling up and down barely a 1/16 of an inch. Dr. Gregory called this center her "spot" for lack of a better word; the area of highest tickling concentration on an area of the body.
The poor girl screamed, begged, pleaded for release, and his sexual organ did also. She was a vision. How long he fantasized about this ticklish young woman. How many nights had he lied in his bed, dreaming of this very moment. Every time she walked into his office and sat in front of him, he wondered just how ticklish she was. And now, he had her totally helpless, hysterically laughing and writhing under his two index fingers.
He stopped and Whitney laughed a little longer. Finally she just panted, coughing and releasing the last of the giggles.
"My God! My God! Oh! Oh! That was something. Oh that was....I never....I had never experienced anyth....Oh! Oh that was something. I never laughed so.... I never...."
"Oh, but Whitney we are not finished just yet."
The poor girl looked up and stared, mouth agape, panting.
"No, no no," said the doctor, as he pulled up a low stool and positioned himself at her two bound feet.
"Oh no PLEASE!!!!" the girl shouted. "Please Doctor! Please! Not my feet. Please let me go. This is torure!"
"This is for your wellness, my child," the doctor said as if he were talking to a ten year old.
He positioned himself so his face was practically touching her two, bound feet. Her pink soles were creased and uncalloused. She flexed and unflexed her toes.
The Doctor reached up the two index fingers and placed them at the base of her long toes.
Instantly, the girl burst into an explosion of giggles and her toes stretched down to grab the tickling fingers. He tickled the balls of her feet as if he were tickling a little baby's feet saying "Kitchy kitchy koo!" over and over again. Whitney was now laughing and her laughter was raising in pitch.
He slid all of his fingers down the length of her soles and swept them up using the back of his nails. She screamed and squealed in laughter, flexing, unflexing and shaking her feet; trying to place one foot on top of the other to protect her extremely ticklish soles. The Doctor began his horse-galloping finger tickling all over her soles, searching for her "spot".
Whitney was screaming, tugging violently at her restraints. The chair shook from a mix of her laughter and her struggling.
All of her awareness was centered totally on her town feet as the doctor tickled and tickled, teasing her verbally and searching for the "one Spot".
He discovered a spot right at her arches where the silent laughter came like a rocket. It was her "Spot". He concentrated his effort, centering his wriggling and tickling fingers on that small spot of soft skin at the bottoms of Whitney's feet. She was so hysterical that the doctor feared she would faint, but he was too far gone in his own passion to care.
"I think I'll keep her like this for a while. Therapy does take time," he thought.
by Max Speer
CHAPTER TEN
Doctor Armstrong's Tickle Therapy
The psychiatrist had been briefed. He had been to Kittletown. He had met Dr. Gregory. He knew the plan.
Dr. Armstrong's lush office was in the heart of Atlanta. His reputation in the South was impeccable, with many years of service to the mental health community.
But Dr. Armstrong knew that this was the year that the plan was destined to blossom. He knew that there were others, snaking their way throughout the United States. He was well aware of the plan to infiltrate every aspect of American life with the idea that Tickling was healthy, exciting, sexy, and the wave of the future. Now was that future.
Dr. Gregory's plan was that the reputable Dr. Armstrong was to introduce it as a viable weapon in the war against mental illness. He was already scheduled to appear on Sally, Montel, and Rosie.
Today, he was to present this alternative, yet progressive treatment to his patients. But it was no coincidence that Dr. Armstrong's first 'guinea pig' was young and beautiful.
Whitney walked into his office on schedule. She was anxious as she laid her purse on the floor and sat in the overstuffed leather chair.
"When do we start this new therapy?" she asked nervously.
"Today."
"What does it entail?"
The Doctor side-stepped and avoided a direct answer. "Whitney, you have been suffering from depression for almost a year now. Traditionally, medication is prescribed for cases such as yours.
"But there is a new form of therapy that has proved highly successful. I would like to try this out on you. Do you trust me, Whitney?"
The girl nodded. She was very cute: shining green eyes, and light brown hair with blonde streaks. At 21, she was too brilliant for her own good. Maintaining a 4.0 average at the University was taxing, emotionally.
"Go into the other room, Whitney. There is a shirt and pants I want you to wear. You have to trust me. It's all part of the therapy."
Whitney was taken aback when she was told to don some other sort of clothing. At least I don't have to be nude, she thought.
This is very weird, but I guess I have to trust the doctor.
Is that what I have to wear? This little midriff/tank top, and these little shorts? I wonder if I can keep my shoes on. Oh, well, I feel like taking them off anyway.
It feels good getting out of these clothes. Wow, this tank top is short. I wonder how he knew my size. I wonder if other girls have to do this?
There's a mirror over there. Good, I'm glad I shaved today; my legs and my underarms. I'd be so embarrassed.
Well, what'll I do now?
Whitney knocked on the door and peaked in. Dr. Armstrong was absolutely sweating with anticipation. He saw a bare shoulder appear, followed by Whitney's sweet face.
"Do you want me in here?"
"Come, come, Whitney. Sit back on the chair."
The young woman sat on the chair. The doctor was aghast. He had never seen such a beauty. She could easily make herself rich as a fashion model. That would get rid of her depression, he chuckled to himself.
She sat in the chair and crossed her legs, self-consciously. Dr. Armstrong watched her bare foot dangle and bob.
"Now, Whitney. You have to trust me. Your mental health is the most important goal right now. Are you ready?"
The woman nodded.
The doctor walked to the young woman and reached under the armrests. He produced two straps and strapped her wrists securely. Then he reached around the back and strapped her waist to the chair. Bending with some difficulty, he managed to produce two straps to bind her ankles to the legs of the chair.
Whitney bit her lip and refused to speak. She was frightened but she kept repeating, "trust trust trust" over and over again, like a mantra.
The doctor went back to his desk and opened a drawer. There was an instrument panel in the drawer. He flipped a switch and the girl's chair started to recline. As it reclined, though, the legs extended outward and the armrests raised. The entire chair actually unfolded.
When it had reached it's maximum extension with a click, Whitney was lying on a slight incline, spread-eagled.
Trust trust trust.
The Mad Doctor got up from his desk and leaned very close to Whitney. She smelled cigar on his breath.
"Now, Whitney, you must trust me the most. As I said before, your health is the most important thing we must think about. Whatever happens now is for your own good. Understand?"
The poor girl could barely speak. She was petrified. She could only gulp and nod.
Doctor Armstrong began his therapy by touching Whitney's bare arms gently, right above the elbow crook. The frightened girl tensed. She still was completely unaware of what was about to happen. He slid his fingers, slowly, lightly, and deliberately down towards her armpits. The skin felt softer to him as he neared her armpits.
But from the moment the doctor began drawing his fingertips on her arm, Whitney knew instantly what she was about to endure. Tickling! She strained to fight but could not. The girl squirmed into the chair and tried the straps, but no escape was possible. Her worst fears were realized. Whitney was utterly and completely ticklish. Then she remembered that she had confessed her fears of being held down and tickled many months before to Doctor Armstrong. He was using that information. He knew that tickling was absolute torture for her.
The fingertips on her inner arms tickled dreadfully, and Whitney began to giggle. The doctor loved hearing Whitney's girlish giggling. He could not have hoped for a better treat. He had watched her sitting across from his every week. Every week she complained of depression. When the weather was warmer she would sit in his office wearing a tank top or sleeveless dress. Many times she would remove her shoes and put her feet up.
All she needs is a good tickling, he would think as he watched her, drooling silently to himself.
Then he met Dr. Gregory and his life changed.
Whitney felt the fingers moving towards her armpits. She was petrified as she giggled uncontrollably. The fingers were now on the outer edges of her highly sensitive armpits, and she started to squeal.
"DON'T DON'T!!!!!" She screamed. "I'LL DIE!! DIE!!!! PLEASE. I'M CURED. REALLY. DON'T TICKLE MY UNDERARMS. PLEASE!!!!!!!!"
"Now, now, Whitney. This is for your own good."
The doctor had an aching hard-on as he slipped his fingers down into the warm, smooth hollows of the ticklish girl's armpits. He played the soft, sensitive skin as if his fingers were horse legs, galloping. Up and down, his fingers lifted and fell, tickling the young girl's highly ticklish underarms.
Whitney screamed then, no sound emerged from her gaping mouth. A twisted grimace gave way to the soundless laugh. This was the ace-in-the-hole for all tickling fanatics. Seeing a woman, who is that ticklish, tickled and laughing silently is like nirvana.
The silence gave way, however to the hysterical laughter. This was the icing on the cake, and the evil doctor couldn't help but laugh right along.
"Tickle tickle tickle tickle tickle," the doctor teased as his fingers tickled up and down her bare, beautiful arms, and down into her deliciously ticklish underarms.
"PLEEEEEEEASSEEE!!!!! HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!!! DON'T TICKLEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEE!!!!!!!! HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! STOP IT HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!!!!!! NO NO NOOOOO!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!! the poor girl pleaded through her hysterics.
The doctor lifted his fingers and brought them down to her warm sides and let his hands come to rest.
Whitney was still giggling as she realized what was coming next. "Oh no no!!!! Don't tickle my ribs. Not my ribs. Please don't!!!!"
The doctor listened to her pleas and let them work deep inside his sexual excitement. Then he gently allowed a finger to play against her sensitive ribs like alternating piano notes.
The ticklish girl went absolutely crazy as she screamed, squealed and giggled. She twisted violently against the chair and her fingers clawed the air. Her laughter was non-ceasing. She has remarkable lung capacity, the doctor thought, medically, as he tickled his way up and down the soft, feminine sides of this beautiful and deliciously ticklish girl.
The doctor moved his fingers up and down her sides, into the warmth of her ticklish underarms, and Whitney let off a higher series of squeals.
"NO! NO! NO! NOOOOOO!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA PLEEEEEASE!!! DON'T TICKLE ME THERE!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!"
The doctor loved watching the girl writhe and twist; the lovely, young face exploding in girlish laughter. He tickled her soft, sensitive armpits and let his wriggling fingers travel up and down her arms. When he found the very core of her ticklishness, a tiny area in the center of her armpits, he dropped his other fingers and just allowed the index fingers of each hand to concentrate there, tickling up and down barely a 1/16 of an inch. Dr. Gregory called this center her "spot" for lack of a better word; the area of highest tickling concentration on an area of the body.
The poor girl screamed, begged, pleaded for release, and his sexual organ did also. She was a vision. How long he fantasized about this ticklish young woman. How many nights had he lied in his bed, dreaming of this very moment. Every time she walked into his office and sat in front of him, he wondered just how ticklish she was. And now, he had her totally helpless, hysterically laughing and writhing under his two index fingers.
He stopped and Whitney laughed a little longer. Finally she just panted, coughing and releasing the last of the giggles.
"My God! My God! Oh! Oh! That was something. Oh that was....I never....I had never experienced anyth....Oh! Oh that was something. I never laughed so.... I never...."
"Oh, but Whitney we are not finished just yet."
The poor girl looked up and stared, mouth agape, panting.
"No, no no," said the doctor, as he pulled up a low stool and positioned himself at her two bound feet.
"Oh no PLEASE!!!!" the girl shouted. "Please Doctor! Please! Not my feet. Please let me go. This is torure!"
"This is for your wellness, my child," the doctor said as if he were talking to a ten year old.
He positioned himself so his face was practically touching her two, bound feet. Her pink soles were creased and uncalloused. She flexed and unflexed her toes.
The Doctor reached up the two index fingers and placed them at the base of her long toes.
Instantly, the girl burst into an explosion of giggles and her toes stretched down to grab the tickling fingers. He tickled the balls of her feet as if he were tickling a little baby's feet saying "Kitchy kitchy koo!" over and over again. Whitney was now laughing and her laughter was raising in pitch.
He slid all of his fingers down the length of her soles and swept them up using the back of his nails. She screamed and squealed in laughter, flexing, unflexing and shaking her feet; trying to place one foot on top of the other to protect her extremely ticklish soles. The Doctor began his horse-galloping finger tickling all over her soles, searching for her "spot".
Whitney was screaming, tugging violently at her restraints. The chair shook from a mix of her laughter and her struggling.
All of her awareness was centered totally on her town feet as the doctor tickled and tickled, teasing her verbally and searching for the "one Spot".
He discovered a spot right at her arches where the silent laughter came like a rocket. It was her "Spot". He concentrated his effort, centering his wriggling and tickling fingers on that small spot of soft skin at the bottoms of Whitney's feet. She was so hysterical that the doctor feared she would faint, but he was too far gone in his own passion to care.
"I think I'll keep her like this for a while. Therapy does take time," he thought.
