tenderfeet
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THE OPENING UP OF CHERRY ANN
Part 2: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...ning-Up-of-Cherry-Ann-(MMMt-Mx36t-FFt)-Part-2
The following story involves nonconsensual and consensual tickling and tickle torture, bisexuality, bigenderness, some bit of straight sex. I say story, but at 96 pages in MS Word 2007 Verdana 12, it's 96 pages long, more of a novella. So long that I've had to chop it up into two parts; this is Part 1.
Chapter 10 contains very, very graphic accounts of hardcore sex that can be interpreted as bi, gay, or straight depending on your POV and how you read the scenes.
Chapter 1: Halloween Night, A Prelude
Chapter 2: Halloween Tickle Hell
Chapter 3: The Grooming Begins
Chapter 4: The Trap Is Set
Chapter 5: Changes Of View
Chapter 6: Turning Point
Chapter 1: Halloween Night, a Prelude
Why did I have to be the witch? Charlie asked himself as he went from house-to-house in the well-to-do urban neighborhood trick-or-treating. A freshman pledge to a fraternity at the downtown university, he and his fellow pledges had been sent out this Halloween evening to collect candy, dressed in Halloween costumes. Traditionally female Halloween costumes.
The frat’s sister sorority on campus also sent out its own pledges to collect candy, but in another neighborhood. Those pledges were also told to wear stereotypically female costumes, with an emphasis on little girlish. The same was true for the frat’s little sisters, who sent out their aspiring little sisters under the same terms, to yet another neighborhood.
The candy was for charity, a local orphanage to which the door fees and other proceeds from tonight’s bash at the frat house would be donated. The frat’s annual Halloween bash was among the top events of the year for students at the university, especially those on Greek Row, a joint venture between the frat and its sister sorority.
The Halloween event raised money in three ways. First, there was a fee at the door. Second, there was a haunted house laid out through three floors, ending in the attic. Third was the special project for which an aspiring member from each of the three related organizations were chosen to help with in the large party room in the open finished basement.
The frat’s pledges were instructed to make themselves as passable as possible, meaning no facial or visible body hair. Charlie went the extra mile and removed it all. Clothing and accessories for the costumes had to be purchased from the thrift store operated by the orphanage. With the frat, the pledge most female in appearance would get to help out with what was touted would be the top money-maker of the evening, something new that year the groups were trying out.
For our protagonist, there was no question that he’d win. At age 18, Charlie was a petite 5’4” and a willowy 108 lbs., with lightly-freckled ivory skin and hazel eyes. For tonight, he wore his thick wavy golden red hair in a page boy cut, complete with bangs, that fell halfway down the nape of his neck. Earrings dangled from both his pierced lobes. Where other pledges opted for more of an outlandish drag queen look with their make-up, Charlie had instead chosen one more passably, if super slutty, female.
Charlie’s most girlish feature were his small, narrow bare feet with slender toes, though he couldn’t imagine them been seen tonight. Which for Charlie was a good thing, being too embarrassed about others seeing his pretty bare feet to show them in public since he’d been teased so much over his tender little ‘sissy feet’ as a kid.
Charlie had always been insecure about his stature (especially after learning his was the average height for a woman), his almost girlish good looks, and his ‘sissy feet’, but for this contest all that would be now an advantage; his liability would for once be an asset. Winning would give him a chance to show the brothers what he could to and that he was a good choice for active membership.
Two little sisters had been assigned to each of the pledges to help them with their costumes and their transformation, and it was they who determined the costume. Charlie’s was a long-sleeved black micro-minidress cinched by a wide black belt around his higher-than-normal-for-a-guy waist, a pointed black witch’s hat, and, the reason for his complaint, black paten leather pumps with 3-inch block heels. Block heels with round toes, maybe, but still heels.
At least they’re not point-toed 6-inch stilettos, he mused gratefully.
The neighborhood he and the other frat pledges had been assigned was an old one of well-kept vintage homes adjacent to the campus. Greek Row lay on the other side. The owners were all professors at the university and other professional people such as doctors and lawyers, some of them quite wealthy, so the haul was pretty good. Which was great, except that the heavy swaying bag of candy made walking in the heels even more difficult.
There was a sense of familiarity as Charlie walked up the sidewalk to the next home, an old Tudor-style house, quite large, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
He knocked on the door with the heavy brass fixture, and when the door opened, he blanched.
This must be where that sense of familiarity comes from, he realized.
Back during the summer at the earliest pre-class rush party, two alumni of his fraternity from a different chapter at a different school had shown up and invited the brothers, pre-pledge aspirants, and little sisters to a party at their house the following weekend.
While the others danced, played drinking games, or swam in the heated pool, Charlie spent a lot time in intellectual conversations with the two hosts and their girlfriends and struck up a friendship with the pair of men almost immediately. Charlie was pleased the older adults had taken an interest.
After uni, Ken, third-generation Irish-American and 6’1”, had gone to med school, while John, Afro-American and 6’3”, now both in their mid-40s, attended law school, both graduating at the top of their classes, both afterwards serving in the army overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan.
After the army, the two close friends had resettled here in the city, both in houses in this Victorian neighborhood. In fact, their houses and yards were back-to-back facing opposite streets on the same block. As for their professional lives, John was one of the prominent attorneys in the city and Ken was top surgeon at the local public hospital. Both men were married to women from the city but had chosen to remain on active duty.
They’d invited him to come back anytime, and he had dropped by several times that summer. He was only dimly aware of a reticence to show up there alone and usually came with Sam, his best friend in the frat. With classes, homework, and fraternity, he hadn’t found the time once school started, though. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t valued their expressed admiration of his intellect and dry sense of humor. That these two well-accomplished older adults had taken such an interest in him was extremely flattering to the young university student.
Now here he was, dressed up like a female witch for this silly charade, and he just knew their high opinion of him was about to collapse.
“My, don’t you make a pretty little witch!” John exclaimed. At Charlie’s crestfallen expression of embarrassment, he laughed. “Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ve been here a few years so we know all about your chapter’s Halloween activities. Good job on the costume, I must say; if I didn’t know you already I’d’ve taken you for one of the sorority pledges or aspiring little sisters.”
Charlie’s face blushed as he smiled, not knowing whether to be mortified or flattered. “Thanks, John, I’m really hoping to win the contest this year.”
“Hey, Ken,” John called over his shoulder, “look who finally decided to drop back by?”
Ken came to the door, and when he saw Charlie, he smiled and his pupils dialated briefly before his eyes grew wide in recognition. “Wow!” he exclaimed, then added, “The fraternity?”
Charlie just nodded.
“Why don’t you come in and sit down for a few minutes? Take your shoes off and put your feet up, give them a break from those godawful heels.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Charlie begin with a sigh of relief, then paused. Ordinarily shy about going barefoot in front of others, he demurred. “But I don’t want to be late getting back for the party. It’s our biggest fundraiser of the year.”
“I’m sure you can spare ten or fifteen minutes,” John persisted.
“Sure you can,” Ken added. “We’re just about to bring out 16-year old Islay single malt.”
Charlie’s eyes lit up. “Well, if you insist and bribe, how can I to refuse?”
He walked the short distance down the foyer, and as he turned into the huge front room, he saw a four-person leather Chesterfield couch on the back wall, a three-person Bridgewater fabric sofa flanking it with its back to the front window, a rattan loveseat opposite the sofa facing the window, and an upholstered armchair opposite the couch. In the center was a round cocktail ottoman four feet in diameter, and there were tables next to the seats.
“You’ve redecorated,” Charlie noted, as Ken went to retrieve the Scotch and three glasses.
“Yes,” replied John, “we’ve been having gatherings here for intellectual discussion and drinks, sometimes dinner. You should drop by for one sometime.”
“I’ll probably do that,” Charlie said.
“You can sit in the armchair,” John directed him, “and put your feet up on the ottoman after you remove your shoes.”
Just then, Ken returned with the Scotch and poured three glasses, handing the one with a double shot to Charlie and one a single shot to John before pouring himself a single shot.
Charlie set his drink on the table next to the armchair, then bent over to remove his pumps.
“Oh, thank God!” he exclaimed as he wiggled his toes, then he looked down.
Damn, I’d forgotten about that! As part of his persona and to help him get into the mood (or so he told himself), he’d gotten a professional pedicure (which he usually did himself), complete with exfoliation and paraffin bath, and had his toenails painted. It was supposed to be his secret.
What the hell, he thought, my feet are killing me.
Taking a small sip of the Scotch, he laid his head back and closed his eyes, swirling it in his mouth, then swallowed, putting his bare feet up on the ottoman as he did so. “My legs! My feet! How do women do this all day?” Relieved to be free of their confinement, they were paddling back and forth and curling and flexing over and over again as well as wiggling their toes.
He raised his head and opened his eyes to find both men gaping at his bare feet with their bright red toenails. A little startled at the intent with which they did so, his toes curled reflexively, causing John and Ken to look up. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten that reaction from other males, especially older men, which was one reason why he never went barefoot in public.
“We were just admiring your pedicure,” John said, in an attempt to cover and deflect Charlie’s attention from their reaction. “Professional job?”
Charlie took another small sip of Scotch. It was relaxing. “Of course,” he smiled, “I am trying to win the pledges’ best dress-up contest after all.” It was the best excuse he could think of.
“Well, I have to say, you really went all out,” Ken remarked.
Charlie looked at his feet absently, curling his toes forward then flexing his soles back and spreading them out. He liked the fact that his second toes were just slightly longer than his big toes. “I chose this particular shade, Fire Engine Red, in defiance of my holier-than-thou mother. The bitch called it ‘*****house red’ when my sister wore it.”
Why did I tell them that? he wondered.
“I’ve got to get a picture of you in this outfit!” exclaimed John as he pulled out his smart phone. “Smile for the camera!”
Charlie curled his toes reflexively just as John took the picture.
“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” John said, “but you have really small feet for a guy, even one your height.”
“Yeah, I know,” replied Charlie, blushing. “I’m 5 1/2 in men’s shoes.”
“Really? That small?” said Ken.
Charlie took a bigger sip of Scotch.
“And those?” Ken asked, gesturing with his eyes at the pumps on the floor.
“They’re size 7B,” Charlie answered, smiling distractedly at his wiggling toes. “A woman’s size 7B, naturally.”
“You’re what, 5’4”, right?” John remarked pedantically. “That’s the median height for women in the U.S., if you didn’t know. For a woman your height, the average shoe size is 8C.”
While Charlie was already uncomfortably aware of the first fact, until now the second hadn’t occurred to him. John’s dispassionate clinical tone imparting those statistics was worse than if it’d been teasing or mocking.
“5’4” and 7B, eh? And you’re what, 105?” asked Ken.
“Almost. 108,” Charlie replied.
“Then you have nearly identical stats to a certain adult entertainer who’s at the top of her industry.”
Charlies blushed. He knew the one, anyone would. And although he knew this already, this was not the most comfortable of circumstances for that to come up in, though understandable in his current guise.
Charlie suddenly felt even more shy and insecure about his bare feet, though he cut short his urge to remove them from the ottoman and tuck them under his thighs so as not to give that away.
Taking another sip of Scotch, he focused his own gaze as well as his speech on the source of his inhibition.
“I’ve always had problems with shoes,” Charlie began babbling, “because I have such narrow feet, plus how narrow the heels area in relation to the balls of my feet. I found that out after seeing a specialist when I was a kid.” He took another sip of Scotch.
“He recommended that I wear girl’s sneakers, at least for every day,” he told them with a nervous giggle. “He told me that was because, and I quote, ‘in simple terms, you have a girl’s feet’.”
What am I saying?
Charlie was too embarrassed to look up at their reactions, but if he had, he would have found their gaze riveted on his subject.
Charlie’s humiliation was complete, though with the Scotch he didn’t mind so much. But part of him felt strangly relieved. Other than his parents, he’d never told that to another living soul, and had no idea why he was now being so indiscreet.
Oh my God, I do have girl’s feet! Charlie’s eyes had grown wide in clarity. When men stare at them, are they aware, or is it their subconscious?
He began to giggle helplessly for no reason outwardly apparent to the two older men as he continued to gawk at the source of that anxiety as if for the first time, a discomfiture somewhat alleviated by the perception of its cause. Maybe saying it out loud had done the trick.
He looked up to find the two men peering at him incredulously.
“You certainly seem amused about something,” John remarked.
“I have girl’s feet!” Charlie proclaimed giddily, Scotch having robbed him of discretion. He’d thought he was a pervert for getting turned on by his own feet, but now that made sense, and even more embarrassing, a fact he managed to keep to himself.
“Yes, you certainly do,” said Ken the medical professional, who’d been clinically examining them once the conversation went there, along with his other motivations. “I knew there was something about them, but couldn’t put my finger on it. And it’s not just your ball-to-heel ratio; it’s the shape and length of your arches and toes too.”
John laughed. “So why do you find it so funny?”
“I dunno...it’s just...I haven’t thought about it in a long, long time. It was so mortifying I buried it really deep and hadn’t remembered it until, well, now.” Charlie’s hands were covering his face. “And I just realized it’s why I’ve always been so embarrassed about going barefoot.”
Several minutes and more light chit-chat later, about things other than his ‘girl’s feet’, and Charlie’s glass was empty. He bent over to put on the pumps, but John stopped him, requesting, “Before you do that, how about one more picture before you go, standing up this time.”
“Ok, sure,” Charlie yielded, chuckling, “why not?”
At John’s direction, Charlie stood with his legs together and his feet turned outward with his arms, palms forward, held out at a forty-five degree angle from his body, with a bright smile, then snapped a photo with his smart phone.
Being tipsy, Charlie barely needed to be coaxed into posing for a few more shots. The second shot was of him lying on the cocktail ottoman on his stomach with his knees bent and feet up, ankles crossed and toes curled, chin resting in his palms. The third was a shot from the side of him sitting on the ottoman with his right leg out and left leg bent at the knee with his sole against the side and toes curled against it as he looked left and arched his back.
The fourth and final was a side shot of him against the jamb of the doorway into the foyer with his right leg raised waist-high with his curled toes pointed at the ground and his head thrown back and turned to the right.
All three were acting pretty giddy throughout the picture-taking. The whole time Charlie clowned around, laughing. For the final shot, he even pursed his lips at the camera.
Putting his shoes back on with a groan a few of minutes later, crossing his legs to do so, Charlie stood up to take his leave.
“I’ll be sure to drop by for one of those gatherings,” he told them at the door.
“We call some of them ‘get-togethers’,” John informed him. “We’ll explain the difference later. Your presence will be greatly appreciated.”
As Charlie sashayed down the walkway to the street, he thought about how much more animated than usual John and Ken had seemed during their conversation. Suddenly it hit him that almost the whole time he was there they’d both been leering and peering at his bare feet.
Oh my God! Charlie gasped to himself. Then he admitted that the conversation had done nothing to deflect their attention and recalling their reactions played to his vanity, so he turned and smiled, waving over his shoulder ebulliently.
Must’ve been the Scotch, he told himself.
It never occurred to Charlie to wonder why John’d insisted on taking the pictures of him in costume nor to entertain doubts about why he’d intervened before he put the pumps back on for the picture-taking nor to wonder why he’d had him assume those specific positions.
The events that followed completely erased the memory from his mind; well, almost, anyway.
Chapter 2: Halloween Tickle Hell
A few more houses later, Charlie arrived back at the frat house and gratefully relieved himself of the overloaded bag of candy.
One of the brothers ushered him into the small rarely-used breakfast room and had him sit at the round table. Two girls likewise dressed as witches already sat there. Once he was seated, the brother left the room, closing the door.
During small talk as they awaited to be called for their party in the big-fundraiser, Charlie learned that Darly, a blonde, was a pledge for his frat’s sister sorority and that June, a brunette, was an aspiring little sister. Both were about the same height as he, both skinny like him, and seemed to know each other fairly well.
After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, Darly looked at him quizzically. “During the time that we’ve been yakking, I realize you seem familiar.”
“I’ve been having the same feeling about you two,” Charlie admitted.
“Now that you mention it, Darly, yeah,” agreed June. “Did you used to wear your hair shorter than it is?”
“Yeah, I started growing it out my senior year,” Charlie answered.
“Oh! I know!” cried June. “From belly-dance class!”
“You’re right!” exclaimed Darly, then turned to Charlie. “You remember now?”
Indeed he did. He’d taken them for several months as a way to meet girls during his high school junior year. It worked out better than he’d hoped, him being the only male student, though he’d been too clueless or shy to strike up anything other than friendship, no matter how much he wanted or how strong his hormones raged. But it’d been a large class, in addition to it being two years ago, and damn, were they hot now. So it’d taken him a bit to remember.
Charlie’d left the class after four months, though he kept practicing with instructional and performance videos on Youtube. Darly and June stayed until the end of their respective junior years, and although attending different high schools, remained in touch off and on throughout the summer and their senior year.
Just as the three were beginning to become both bored and anxious, two representatives from each of the three organizations came into the room, each of the three teams carrying a length of rope and a black scarf.
“Stand up and face the wall, putting your hands together behind your backs,” the three were told. They hestitated briefly, but did as they were told.
“What are you...,” Charlie asked as they started to bind his wrists.
“Silence!” ordered one of the brothers. “This is part of the procedure.”
The three were led to the great room on the first floor, where the chapter had its weekly business meetings. At a table in the end of the room next to the front of the house sat the presidents of the fraternity, sorority, and little sisters, dressed in judges’ robes. The brothers, sisters, little sisters, and pledges sat in chairs lining the room and filling two-thirds of the floorspace.
“Bring the prisoners forth,” the fraternity president, Greg, ordered, “and have them kneel before their judges.”
The three were brought before the “judges”, facing the table, and made to kneel. To relieve their anxiousness, the judges broke character and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” the sorority president, Betty, told them. “This is only roleplay.”
“Yeah,” added the head little sister, Dorothy, “just part of the act.”
The three judges resumed their stern roles.
“The three wenches before you have been judged guilty of witchcraft and of seducing men for their own amusement...,” at the latter of which all three ‘prisoners’ turned bright red, for different reasons, “they shall therefore be taken from here and confined in such a manner that our citizens and guests may turn the tables and use them as targets of amusement and ridicule. For a fee, of course,” Greg finished with a wink.
Charlie and his two companion witches were then taken downstairs. Trying to walk in heels on the stairs with his wrists tied behind his back made him skittish, something he was sure Darly and June were also feeling.
When they reached the basement, the three prisoners were led to the far corner in which sat three stout armless wooden chairs behind a wooden device with six holes in pairs that where about three inches apart, with the pairs spaced evenly from each other.
“What is THAT thing?” Darly exclaimed.
“Those are called stocks,” answered one of the little sisters. “They’re for the punishment of witches and other sinners.”
“I don’t know about this,” said June reluctantly.
“I’m sure it will be all right,” Charlie offered encouragingly. “Whatever’re they going to do to us can’t be too bad, can it?”
“You really think so?” asked Darly, both skeptically and hopefully.
“Well, Charlie says it’ll be okay,” replied June, “and I trust him. After all, he’s in the same boat as the two of us.”
Their handlers sat each of them down in one of the heavy wooden chairs, which were plushly-cushioned at the seat and the back, bringing their bound wrists over said backs. They then made several loops of rope around the prisoners’ upper torsos and the backs of the chairs, securing them in place when they tied the ropes off.
None of the three “witches” made any attempt to protest this, but that ability was soon taken away with a strip of duct tape across their mouths. The three prisoners suddenly became aware they might be in trouble.
Charlie could hear whimpers of fright coming from his two ‘witch’ companions. Then he realized one of those whimpers was his own.
The handlers opened the stocks and lifted their legs then set them down on the padded bottom halves of the ankle holes. With their feet held in place by their handlers, one of the fraterinity brothers closed the wooden top bar. Afterwards, he squatted down and they heard a metallic click, the sound of a padlock being closed.
When the hands released their ankles, all three instinctively pulled back. Finding themselves trapped, they began to struggle. Darly’s and June’s muffled protests mirrored Charlie’s own.
Charlie looked quickly around the room and took stock of the situation. He and the other two prisoners, with him in the center, were the base of a triangle the apex of which was one corner of the open basement, opposite the corner with the bar and sound system. Chairs and benches lined the rest of the walls. To one side of the apparatus in which Charlie was held was a table and chair, with a cash box on top.
The two fraternity brothers (Charlie couldn’t remember their names) picked up a large piece of plywood and brought it before the three “witches”. A second after the two flipped it over to show them what was written on the other side, Charlie gasped, then began struggling furiously, as did his companions.
While the two frat brothers hung this sign above the heads of the three unfortunate prisoners, the two sorority sisters and the two little sisters placed signs on stands flanking the stocks which offered further encouragement.
The three teams of captors squatted down and each removed a shoe from the feet of the prisoner of their respective organization. Charlie’s face turned crimson as the two stared lecherously at his bare feet before continuing with their preparations.
“My, my, my!” one of them exclaimed as he and his fellow exposed Charlie’s bare feet with their ‘*****house red’ toenails. “Someone went a little overboard for their role!”
“Very nice!” added the other, admiringly. “You have prettier feet than a lot of girls.”
And Charlie had thought before that he couldn’t be any more humiliated than being locked in stocks for all to see.
Glancing at the bare feet of his two companions, having an extreme foot fetish himself, he noted that by chance their toenails were painted the same shade as his own. That he was in the same position as they, with bare feet on public display to be ogled and leered at as if he were a real girl, made him feel acutely self-conscious, shy, and submissive.
The last preparation consisted, ominously, of placing a wooden stool two feet away from each pair of trapped bare feet.
“We’re so grateful to you for doing this,” said one of the little sisters merrily. “It’ll our biggest money-maker of the night!”
After the handlers placed pillowcases over their heads, the nervous trio heard their footsteps echo on the tile floor then as they headed up the wooden stairs, laughing.
* * * * *
At first, he’d been terrified, then dejected, then rejected, then betrayed, then panicked, struggling until he exhausted himself. Like his two fellow soon-to-be victims.
Charlie had always been fascinated by the idea of tickle torture. When he was little, he would actually beg older relatives to tickle his bare feet. It never lasted more than a couple of minutes, usually just half a minute or even a few seconds, so for little Charlie, it was fun.
Then in middle school, an older bully in the neighborhood tickle-tortured him ever chance he got. Pouncing on the younger, much smaller lad, the bully would cheerfully announce, “Time to play Chinese tickle torture!”, then the hell would begin. He always followed the same routine; start out tickling Charlie’s upper body until all the fight was tickled out, pull off his shoes and strip off his socks while laughing at his pleas for mercy, then tickle-torture his bare feet, by far the worst for Charlie, until he was in tears.
Every time when it was over, the bully would actually thank Charlie “for playing”, always adding that “one of these days I should drag you back to my clubhouse in the woods, tie you up real good, and invite all the kids in the neighborhood to tickle your bare feet…after they’ve purchased a feather to do so from me, of course.” That never happened, but Charlie always feared it might, which made his occasional random forays into those very woods both daring and stupid.
Since then, the thought of actually being tickle-tortured for real, rather than just in his fantasies, was too much to bear. And now here he was, completely helpless, with his worst nightmares about to come true in the most horrible way possible. Even more shamefully mortifying was the fact that his most favorite imaginary scenario put him in this very same role, as a female witch slut sentenced to be publicly tickle-tortured on the bottoms of her helpless bare feet.
To stave off panic, Charlie did calculations in his head. There would be twelve five-minute sessions per hour per “volunteer”. There were three victims, so thirty-six five-minute sessions per hour. At $20 per five-minute session, that meant up to $720 in “donations” per hour. Up to $1420 in two hours. Possibly $2160 in three hours. Beyond that, he was too afraid to consider.
That done, his desperate mind began to wonder if his former antagonist was somehow involved in this scenario. Though since the bully had been living in Bangkok for years, there was no chance of that.
Soon, Charlie heard footsteps, bangs, crashes, and screams coming from upstairs as as the first wave of guests progressed through the haunted house.
Maybe it won’t be too bad, Charlie told himself wishfully. I mean, it’s just tickling, right? But he had a feeling he’d soon regret having gotten that pedicure this afternoon.
When he heard several pairs of steps descending the wooden staircase, Charlie’s senses instantly went on high alert. The bottoms of his trapped bare feet began to tingle with anticipation.
“OH MY GOD!” someone cried out, before a chorus of similar exclamations flooded the room.
“Yes, yes, it’s for real,” Charlie heard one of the brothers explain.
“Can I tickle all three or do I have to pay for each?”
“I think I may have to go visit the ATM on campus.”
“I’m sooo glad I got my stilleto manicure today!”
All three prisoners were now panicking, struggling in their bonds trying to plead for mercy past their duct tape gags.
Just as the three were about to go crazy with anticipation, their hoods were removed, revealing their faces to the eagerly awaiting customers.
The frat brother standing at the table then annnounced, “Behold, the shameless sluts here to be punished for their manifold sins and wickedness!”
The crowd enjoyed the embarrassment of the helpless “sinners” immensely.
The brother at the table rang the large bell that had been sitting on his table to signal for silence.
When the crowd had stopped giggling and chattering, he recited from memory the words written on the sign above the heads of the “prisoners” which had caused them such distress.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! The witches before ye, concubines of Satan, are guilty of witchcraft, seducing men for their own amusement, and generally wreaking havoc on the peace of our community. They have therefore been confined here to face the community against whom they have transgressed that ye may tickle torture the soles of their bare feet until the evil is purged from their souls.”
He said this with the the voice of the town cryer as which he was dressed, adding in a normal tone of voice, “$20 for 5 minutes”.
Charlie’s vision tunneled, focusing on his ‘*****house red’ toenails as he desperately tried to will his nervously wriggling feet to stay still and not drawn attention to themselves.
Charlie heard Darly start giggling on his left, quickly escalating to laughter. Then June exploded in hysterical laughter on his right, dying down to helpless bubbling laughter.
The buxom senior girl with the stiletto nails sat down on the stool before his bare feet. “This is for stealing my boyfriend, you dirty little *****!” she exclaimed merrily. Then Charlie screamed as her terrible fingernails started scampering over his soles and he wailed in misery at the wave after wave of intense ticklish sensations coursing through his body.
And so it continued the rest of the evening. Fortunately, only a few tickled viciously, drawing anguished screams, tortured laughter, and agonized convulsions from the victims of their sadistic assault. Some alternated styles back and forth between light and hard tickling. But most of their torturers, fortunately, tickled playfully, teasing them verbally and taunting them with their helpless vulnerability, which was in some ways more humiliating if less agonizing.
As time passed, Charlie found himself gradually sinking, against his will, deeper and deeper into his involuntary role until he was totally immersed in it. In his mind, he became an actual girl, a slut and a witch who deserved to be punished and was getting exactly what she deserved.
Periodically, the corner was cleared and the ticklees given a brief, very brief, rest period that included a small amount of cool water to soothe their throats and replace the fluids that exited their bodies in the form of sweat and tears. But then would come the dreaded announcement, “Alrighty now, break time is over!”, and the hell would start again, and immediately so, since the next ticklers had already gleefully paid their fees.
Well into the night, Charlie was so dazed that he was beyond resentment, beyond humiliation, beyond regret. There was nothing in the world but tickling. Fingers and fingernails scampering madly across his helpless soles and toes.
After three hours, the town-cryer frat brother pronounced the full atonement of the prisoners, who were released from their bondage to join the party. Charlie felt as stoned as if he’d smoked a bowl of Tennessee wonder weed himself, but without the drowsiness, and, strangely, quite energized despite his physical exhaustion.
All three ‘witches’ were forced to remain barefoot for the rest of the evening, including while they helped with clean-up after all the festivities had ended. For the remainder of the party, though, they removed themselves to the ground floor, well away from the stocks, sitting in a corner well away from everyone else, hardly saying a word.
When he awoke the next morning, Charlie had no idea where he was at first. Then he realized he was in his own bed, though it took him several minutes to recall driving home. He had barely the strength and mobility to shower last night; removing the toenail polish had to wait until today. Fortunately, he had the upstairs to himself since his sister went away to an ivy league uni in the northeast on a full scholarship.
Just then, his phone signaled he had received a text message. He opened it to find: “Thank you for graciously volunteering to help out with the special fund-raiser last night. With your help, we raised over $2000 for the orphanage. However, you make way too good a girl to be a brother, so you have been BLACKBALLED.”
It took Charlie all weekend long to physically recover from his ordeal. He was still sore and stiffven on Monday, still in a bit of a daze. But as the week progressed, he got better.
Psychological recovery was another story. Especially after the anonymous messages started.
That very Monday afternoon, he got a link to an ad from a personals site that had stepped into the Craigslist void, and when he clicked on it, it read: “Girls, it pays to get tickled: $100 for one hour of tickling your bare feet.”
Oh my God, no fucking way! Someone really has a sick sense of humor, Charlie said to himself, then thought, but at least that would be better than having it done to me for free.
The next day came a link to what looked like a professional commercial ad: “Upscale company catering to select, discreet clientele seeks young women for fetish modeling. Young men truly passable as female considered.”
Later in the week, some anonymous person emailed him a link to a vidclip of the ordeal.
Of course, someone recorded it, he thought mournfully. Probably several someones.
The recording, which was quite clear, began with a wide shot of all three ‘witches’ being tickled, then focused on each one individually, first showing a complete shot, then focusing on their feet flailing madly and toes wriggling wildly as they struggled futilely in their bonds, then a close-up of each victim’s clearly recognizable face.
He scrolled down to see if there was an accompanying message. There was.
“Talk, and we will get you and your pretty little soft bare girl’s feet and this will happen to you again, only much, much worse. We know where you live, where you eat, where your classes are. Tickle! Tickle! Tickle!”
Had Charlie even considered telling anyone, he might’ve been worried. But the ordeal was way too humiliating to share.
A brief daydream that he had talked, and was caught, kidnapped, stripped, and forced to relive the ordeal all over again gave him a moment of terror. Strangely followed by excitement. Then arousal, but only after he forced himself to envision other captors in the scenario, faceless ones whom he did not know, and because of the context, all men.
He wondered whether Darly and June had told anyone, and whether the two of them had received such a message also. And whether they were plagued by the same thoughts.
A week later, Charlie received an text with another ad from the same site as before that had a more chilling message: “I’d love to get your pretty little soft bare feet in my stocks so you can amuse me and my friends. Then entertain us in other ways.”
This sent shivers down Charlie’s spine. And he couldn’t stop his mind from replaying the scenario with the faceless captors, now wearing black hoods. Ashamed and chagrined that these fantasies filling his consciousness when they unstoppably arose turned him on so much, he was nevertheless terrified they would somehow come true.
After another week, Charlie received a second video of that night, solely of him. One of the male party attendees was playfully tickling his helpless bare feet. From a long shot of the scene, the video focused in on his flailing feet and wriggling toes, then traveled slowly up his long, shapely bare legs and quivering torso before resting on his face. While Charlie giggled helplessly in what appeared to be cheerful delight as if he were enjoying the torment of his tender bare soles, the following words scrolled across the screen as a chorus of three disguised voices read them aloud in perfect harmony:
Tacked onto the end of the clip was a photo of three evil clowns, presumably the owners of the three voices, each holding a feather, an email address at the bottom inviting Charlie to contact ‘der-kitzler.garglolagnia666’.
For Charlie, this was way too close to home, hitting him with the force of a supernova.
Charlie’s way of handling anxiety was to allow himself to become engrossed by whatever the source of stress was in the hope that he’d become numb to its effects, often to the point of being spellbound. So, after his Halloween ordeal, he’d returned to crossdressing in the privacy of the second floor of his parents’ home, which he’d abandoned after high school.
Because the messages and videos had freaked him out so much, he felt compelled to go farther, so he also ordered online a nipple enlargement tool that worked with suction and minor electric pulses. The process called for twelve thirty-minute treatments, then a weekly follow-up. His areolas grew a bit larger, but his nipples had gotten huge. He’d just wanted to try it out, to see for a bit what having large nipples was like.
This last message made him question his motives, for which he’d attributed a morbid sense of curiosity from still being absorbed by his role.
When he got home from class that evening, Charlie changed his email and got another phone, then closed both his previous accounts, which ended the anonymous texts and emails. But that did nothing to stop the imaginary mental scenarios they had provoked from crashing through to the surface almost against his will. The black-hooded men morphed into clowns, naked madly cackling clowns with feathers and feather-dusters and large erections.
Chapter 3: The Grooming Begins
In November, John and Ken called and invited Charlie to a Christmas party at John’s the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. The holiday itself fell on the 22nd that year, the earliest day it could be.
Charlie’d given his number to everyone in the list whom he trusted when he’d transferred from his previous phone. Charlie had avoided going anywhere near the frat house at all costs, but John’s was a couple of blocks away from that.
“There won’t be anyone from the fraternity there, will there?”
“No,” John replied. “We don’t know what happened but had heard you were no longer with them, so we figured it best not to invite any of them.”
“Hey, I’m so glad you came,” John told him when he greeted him at the door. “I see you’ve decided to keep growing your hair out even more; it looks great!”
Charlie’s hair now fell just to his shoulders. “Thanks! I thought I’d give long hair a try.”
The party proved to be the balm Charlie needed at that time. Since all the attendees were older, in their thirties to fifties, he didn’t feel the same sorts of social pressure as he did at uni and among his former fratrnity members. The older adults, men and women on this occasion, also offered more stimulating company intellectually than those his age, and seemed to appreciate his intellect and wit as much as John and Ken.
Though he recognized that he was not their peer, not equal to their level of accomplishments and experience, he still felt comfortable because none of them seemed to mind this.
At the end of the evening, John invited him once again to his ‘gatherings’. “Many of the men here tonight are regular attendees,” he informed Charlie.
“Thanks again,” Charlie expressed, “and now that I’ve met some of them, I look forward to it.”
“And please feel free to drop by any time you’re down here and not in class,” John continued, “since I’ll probably be home. I’ve moved my work office from downtown now, and only go to the firm to meet with clients.”
The following week, Charlie began dropping by frequently in the afternoon on the way home after class or whenever he had a break between classes, as John suggested, and sometimes driving downtown from the ‘burbs just for that purpose and no other.
As he started into the living room proper on his first visit, John told him, “Please make yourself at home when you’re here. Take off your shoes and leave them at the door as soon as you come in. Your socks too; we don’t want you slipping on the hardwood floor.” He seemed rather insistent, bur gently so.
Visibly startled for a brief instant, Charlie stumbled out, “Well, uh, o-okay, yeah, I guess I can do that.” The events of Halloween and the subsequent anonymous messages had made him even more shy about going barefoot in front of others. But then he remembered that John and Ken had already seen his bare feet anyway, with Fire Engine Red toenails, no less. And since they were friends, real friends he assumed, he figured he wasn’t in danger.
He returned to the foyer and submissively complied with the request (out of respect for his hosts, he told himself), curious about why he hadn’t been ‘invited’ (it felt more like directed) to do so on his visits before back in the summer. Then he squatted down and rolled up his cuffs, which he told himself was to keep from tripping, not to better show off his bare feet.
At least my feet are in good shape, he told himself, briefly thankful he gave himself a pedicure monthly, with weekly touch-ups, but then worried about what signals that might send.
Walking back to the kitchen intent on obtaining a wine glass after greeting his two hosts, Charlie didn’t notice the man there standing over the stove.
As he reached up into the cabinet on the opposite side of the room, he heard a voice with an English accent behind him say, “My, what pretty little bare feet you have!”
Charlie nearly dropped the glass on the floor. He hadn’t known anyone was back here.
Turning around with his face red and a bashful smile on his face, “W-what?” Charlie stammered, looking at his feet briefly, then up at the speaker. “Oh, th-thank you, I guess.”
“You must be Charlie,” the man, looking to be in his early forties, said, smiling in a friendly way, “John and Ken have told me so much about you.”
“Yep, that’s me,” said Charlie. “And who might you be?”
“Glad to meet you finally,” the man answered. “I’m George, a psychology professor at the university. John and Ken are like family.”
“Well, then I’m glad to meet you too,” Charlie replied cheerfully, shaking his hand. “I’ll probably be seeing you again; I should be over here lots.”
As he started to headed back into the party, he heard Lindsey call out teasingly behind him, “If those pretty little bare feet of yours are as soft and ticklish as they look, it’s pretty reckless of you to show them off so brazenly and ostentatiously like that.”
A chill ran down Charlie’s spine, freezing him momentarily in place. My God, they wouldn’t really do that, would they?
He was grateful George couldn’t see the mortified expression on his face, and especially not the smile that subsequently spread across his face despite his abject dread. Halloween, after all, was less than a month ago.
* * * * *
Returning to the living room, he felt suddenly very self-conscious about his bare feet, which was heightened by the fact that his hosts and their other guest wore shoes and expensive business attire. Ken apparently had a day off from the hospital where he was a surgeon.
Nevertheless, after that visit Charlie felt compelled, even without any further ‘request’ from his hosts, to obediently remove his shoes at the front door as soon as he entered and go barefoot whenever he was here at John’s house.
Once past his inner misgivings, he secretly delighted in how vulgar and naughty it made him feel. So on all his future visits, instead of his sports sneakers and cotton socks, he switched to wearing white canvas sneakers (women’s) without socks to make his entrances quicker, purchased especially for visits here. And he soon began wear crop flare jeans (also women’s) to eliminate the ‘need’ to roll up his pants legs.
After a few visits during daytime, Charlie started occasionally dropping by in the evening too, until the week of Christmas.
The first couple of times Charlie came to John’s house, he found John or John and Ken alone in the house. On the third visit, though, one evening, he found himself walking barefoot into what would appear to be an impromptu gathering of around twelve men, including the hosts, all in business attire or casual dress suits.
From their initial reactions when he stepped into the living room, Charlie felt for a moment that the men were reacting as if he were a pretty barefoot girl. Feeling that initial surge of (possibly lecherous) attention wash over him had left him briefly feeling like prey . He felt very conspicuous, being by far the youngest and the only one barefoot surrounded by besuited older men.
“Gentlemen, meet Charlie, a friend of mine and Ken’s,” John told the men. “We invited him because we believe he’ll be a desirable acquisition.”
Just as Charlie was about to relax, one of the men exclaimed, “Oh my God, you have a girl’s feet!”
Charlie cringed, but managed to smile, responding, “Yes, according to my podiatriast, I do.” That deflected the matter for the moment, but that cat was now out of the bag.
As the evening passed, Charlie began to relax. Attractive, highly intelligent, and in many ways more mature than people his own age, he enjoyed their company, and they seemed to enjoy his company, mostly because he kept up with the conversations, even though all the others were much older than he, most more than twice his age.
Despite their amiability towards him and their seeming high regard, being barefoot amidst these uniformly well-besuited much older men sometimes made Charlie feel gauche and low-class, as if his bare feet signified shame, public humiliation, or subservient status.
Feeling them leer or stare as he sat participating or ogle intently as he went about his tasks greatly reinforced this impression, especially when they gazed explicitly at his bare feet, which sometimes made him feel like he may as well be stark naked.
Several commented on his “girl’s feet”or appreciated their appearance. Even worse was that they’d quickly nicknamed him ‘Little Miss Pretty Feet’, which Charlie tried to pass off as a joke, giggling and rolling his eyes whenever he heard it.
Starting with that visit, there were usually several other men besides John and Ken in the evenings, almost always including George, all in their forties, always dressed in business or casual dress suits, though usually their ties were loosened. At least this was the case on the nights he showed up. Charlie didn’t come by every night, of course, but he showed up as often as he could.
John and Ken called their get-togethers ‘coffee klatches’, but sometimes it was just a few men hanging out for a little bit waiting for rush hour to be over. These gatherings quickly became Charlie’s main social outlet; he didn’t miss the fraternity at all, though he did begin to sorely miss female company.
For these occasions, everyone would gather around the cocktail ottoman on the different seating furniture, Charlie somehow almost always ending up in the armchair. If there were more guests than seats, chairs would be brought from the dining room. What everyone did most evenings was pretty mundane: watching TV, eating dinner, drinking wine, smoking weed, having intellectual conversations, and occasionally some of the men would shoot billiards or play poker.
Sometimes there was many as twenty men present, and not always the same men; on a few occasions Charlie knew no one other than John, Ken, and George.
When asked to help out by serving and refilling drinks, wine glasses, and food, and taking used stuff back to the kitchen, Charlie was only too glad to help out. It gave him function and made him feel like part of the host team. He also had the chance for more mundane direct one-on-one interaction with the guests. Over the days and weeks , this became slowly but surely became his primary role.
He began to be concerned that invariably going barefoot among so many apparent foot-fetishists might be construed as flirtatiously suggestive, worse as deliberately provocative, or worst of all as an open invitation. Mostly because that was true; the fact they seemed so attracted to him and his bare feet fed his vanity so much that he couldn’t stop himself from playing on, as well as playing into, those desires, despite feeling no carnal attraction in return. Well, none that he was ready to admit to himself.
Knowing that a fetish for bare feet typically coexisted with a fetish for tickling feet, Charlie was also painfully aware at all times of his insanely ticklish bare tooties being dangerously exposed, vulnerable, and in constant peril. Whenever this thought sprang up, George’s admonition repeatedly replayed in his head like the passage of a song just before a scratch on an old vinyl record reprising every time the diamond needle bounced back.
If those pretty little bare feet of yours are as soft and ticklish as they look, it’s pretty reckless of you to show them off so ostentatiously like that.
All of this left Charlie apprehensive and feeling powerless. Always showing off his ‘pretty little soft bare girl’s feet’ anyway in careless disregard of these hazards, however, conversely made him feel secretly bold, daring, adventurous, a little kittenish, and more than a bit mischievous. He told himself it was an act of defiance, rather than one of surrender that thrust him deeper down the rabbit hole.
Charlie became cognizant of himself assuming feminine mannerisms and gestures—playing with his hair, tilting his head when he spoke or listened, swaying his hips when he walked, playing with his hair—almost as if by instinct. He was vaguely aware that his voice became softer and higher pitched, though it remained a deep Southern drawl that he’d inherited from his mom’s family.
But these characteristics only made their appearance here at the gatherings, first beginning to stir and bubble to the surface every time he was invited or planned on his own to drop by.
He became more and more obsessed with keeping his feet as attractive as possible, their soles as soft, smooth, and tender as they could be. He couldn’t control himself, giving himself weekly pedicures with exfoliation and cuticle-trimming, buffing his toenails, lotioning two or three times a day, and doing touch-ups with Pretty Feet & Hands during the week, not satisfied unless they remained soft, smooth, and alluring (he hoped) at all times.
What’s come over me? Charlie kept asking himself.
As time passed, Charlie became ever more flamboyant in displaying his feet, curling and flexing his soles, wiggling his toes, paddling his feet, sitting with one leg crossed over the other at their thighs swinging the upper leg slightly and twirling his foot, sitting balled up with his knees to the back of the chair and his soles facing out, sitting sideways in the chair with his heels resting up on the arm or hanging over the edge, or shifting his legs to present a better view of his soles.
The next evening Charlie arrived for a gathering already in progress, John greeted him at the door, saying, “Don’t leave your shoes in the foyer anymore. With all the guests we’re having lately we need to the foyer uncluttered, so we’ve made other arrangements.”
“Ok, no problem, ” Charlie replied, a little downheartedly. Does this mean I don’t get to…have to, I mean…go barefoot anymore?
When he came in, however, he found a round cushioned barstool stool just inside the entrance to the living room, facing toward the interior (and its occupants). It was short enough, even for him, that he could easily sit on it and put both feet on the floor.
“See?” Ken noted from his spot on the loveseast, “We provided a stool for you. You can take your shoes off there and leave them under the stool.”
“I appreciate that,” he smiled. “Very considerate of you.”
Sitting down, he removed his canvas sneakers, crossing his right leg over his left, bending over to untie his shoe then removing it slowly, but not too slowly, before uncrossing and recrossing his legs, this time left over right, and repeating the procedure. Afterwards, he climbed down, knelt in front of the barstool, then sat on his heels and bent all the way over to place them carefully under the stool, with his soles facing toward the men in the room.
As he did this, conversation among the ten or so present suddenly ceased, and he had to stop himself from looking back, afraid of what he might see.
This performance at the barstool became Charlie’s regular entrance ritual.
When he got to his usual spot in the room that evening, he saw the armchair he usually sat in had been moved back from the ottoman some, with a matching footstool in front of it and a small round wooden table next to it to compensate for the distance from the other.
On his next afternoon visit, the week before Christmas, a shoebox in holiday wrapping paper lay atop the seat of his barstool. Inside were a pair of chambray casual low-cut slip-on boat sneakers with rubber insoles, women’s size 7B.
“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” John, the only one then present, told him. “You can wear them when you come here.”
“Thank you,” Charlie responded.
When Charlie took out the boat sneakers to try them on, he found a 20” long silver rope chain about twenty inches long in the right one.
“That’s for you, too” John told him.
“Thank you again,” Charlie replied.
When he started to put it around his neck, John stopped him.
“No, it’s an anklet, silly. Go ahead and sit down, take off your shoes, and I’ll put it on.”
So Charlie sat down, took off his white canvas sneakers, and John fastened the anklet in place around his right ankle, wrapping it around twice, making Charlie feel uncomfortably passive and submissive.
Afterwards, Charlie tried on his new boat sneakers.
After the other men began to arrive, the new anklet drawing even more attention to his ‘pretty little soft bare girl’s feet’ made Charlie feel ten times more conspicuous than usual.
Later in the evening when John, Ken, and George happened to be back in the kitchen, as he was walking past the Chesterfield couch the one of the men on it tried to get his attention by poking him in the side.
When Charlie jumped and yelped, the guy declared excitedly, “Hey! Little Miss Pretty Feet is ticklish!”
There was a dramatic pause of about half a second as Charlie stood frozen like a deer in the headlights at the man’s gleeful exclamation.
Several of them shouted, almost in unison, “Let’s get him!”
The four people on the couch pulled him down and began tickling his upper body as others joined in. Charlie squirmed and writhed and giggled and laughed, kicking his legs wildly.
“Someone hold down his legs!”
One of the men grabbed his legs in a vise-like grip.
“Now let’s get his girl’s feet!”
“NOOOO! NOT MY F-E-E-E-T!” Charlie cried out before dissolving into hysterical laughter. “PLE-E-E-A-A-S-E! OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD!! HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE!”
The last was directed to John and the other two who had returned from the kitchen as soon as they heard the noise. They did nothing to intervene, however, appearing amused as they stood watching the action.
The whole episode lasted less than a minute.
Once they ceased and Charlie stood up, his ticklers looked at him in abashed anticipation of a possible unfavorable reaction. But they relaxed and chuckled when Charlie, not knowing how else to react, bowed three times, then straightened, smiled, and said, “Well, that was fun!
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shit-eating grin from George.
When everyone else left, Charlie remained to help John, Ken, and George clean up, staying after the other two nonresidents also departed. He was sitting on the left side of the rattan loveseat with his bare feet up on the footstool, reading a magazine as he drank a final glass of merlot before heading home.
He thought nothing as he heard John’s footsteps behind him, but just after he set down his wine glass to turn a page, he exploded in laughter, “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”, as John’s fingers dug into his waist and ribs. When the masterfully tickling fingers reached Charlie’s underarms, that latter’s knees reflexively folded toward his torso. John swiftly stepped around the loveseat, scooped Charlie’s ankles under his left arm, and sat down on the right side.
“No! Not my feet!” Charlie pleaded, pulling on his legs but unable to dislodge them from John’s vise-like hold, then dissolving into giggles as John’s fingers scampered lightly across his soft bare soles.
“Teeheehee...that’s not...teeheehee...fair...teeheehee!”
“Oh, come on, Charlie,” John teased, “let me tickle your feet just like this. I missed out on the fun before. And can I say, wow, your feet are really soft!”
“Teeheehee...I guess...teeheehee...it’s...teeheehee...okay...teeheehee!”
“You like it when your feet are tickled like this, don’t you?”
“No...teeheehee...I...teeheehee...hate it...teeheehee!”
“Lying to me now, are you?” John spread out the fingers of his huge hand and began raking them rapidly up and down Charlie’s helpless bare beet. “How about like this?”
“AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! STOP!!! STOP IT!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“I thought so,” John told him. “I’m gonna keep doing it like this until you give in and admit you like it the other way.”
“HAHAHAHA...NOOOOOO...HAHAHAHAHA...NEVER...HAHAHAHAHA!”
Originally intending just to give Charlie a few quick moments of sadistic tickling then return to the more playful version, John flipped his victim over onto his stomach and pinioned his lower legs between his own thighs with his feet on the armrest after an involuntary spasm caused Charlie to nearly kick him in the face.
“Okay, Charlie,” he gleefully told his victim, “now you’re really gonna get it!”
“Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, pleeeease...AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Charlie exploded as John began raking his fingers lighting fast up and down his pink soles.
After about fifteen seconds, John ceased the hard tickling. Withdrawing two chopsticks from his shirt pocket, he used the smooth round-ended tops to tap all around Charlie’s trapped bare soles. His captive giggled helplessly but delightedly as John continued to tap away lightly.
“Teeheehee-teeheehee-teeheehee-how long- teeheehee-are you-teeheehee-going to-teeheehee-do this-teeheehee-to me-teeheehee?”
“For nearly kicking me in the face?” John asked rhetorically. “I’m going to tickle you until you agree to appear at the next get-together as the sexy little witch you were on Halloween night, complete with all the details.”
“Nooooo...teeheehee...I won’t...teeheehee...do it...teeheehee...teeheehee!”
At this, John began raking the round ends of the chopsticks up and down his captive’s soft pink soles with a heavy hand, at which Charlie stopped giggling and opened his mouth in a silent scream as his breath was taken away by the intensity of the tickling sensations this generated.
For the next several minutes all Charlie could do was squirm and flop helplessly and scream with howling laughter as John tickled merrily away while taunting him, “Imagine, Charlie, you here in your sexy little witch costume showing off your smooth sexy legs and your pretty little soft bare girl’s feet with ‘*****house red’ toenails…”
“NOOOO...HAHAHAHA... FUUUCKING...HAHAHAHA...WAAAAAAAAY!”
“We tell everyone that this is your punishment, but not for what you’re being punished for. Let their imaginations take over.”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“Oh, oh, I’ve got one better! You serve as a tavern wench, a barefoot tavern wench with ‘Tickle Me Pink’ toenails”
“OHMYGODOHMYGOD-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-YOU’RE-HAHAHA-KILLING ME-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
But Charlie still refused to give in.
“We tell everyone to ask what color your new toenail polish is and that your response will be an invitation do just that!”
“NOOOOOOOO-HAHAHAHA-NONONONONONONO-PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!”
After about ten minutes that felt like an eternity to Charlie, John stood up, flipped him back over, and swung his legs over to the right as Charlie’s laughter died down into giggles. As he did so, Charlie’s bare feet brushed his crotch and bulging erection through his dress pants.
Oh my God, was that intentional? Charlie asked himself. No, it had to be an accident. Then his eyes grew wide as the impression of the size of John’s cock made its way from the bottoms of his bare feet to his brain.
“Sorry, Charlie, that was just way too tempting,” John told him as he sat back down at the right end of the Chesterfield couch, “after not getting in on the action earlier tonight. Another glass of merlot?”
On the way home after that second glass, Charlie was mesmerized by the memory of that ‘accidental’ brush, and that night, after he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of being forced to serve the men at one of the gatherings as a ‘barefoot tavern wench’, waking up to find his cock stiffer than it had ever been before.
Chapter 4: The Trap Is Set
When Charlie dropped by the next afternoon and approached the place of his usual seat, the armchair and footstool, he discovered instead a black faux-leather Julia chaise lounger that could convert into a futon.
“Go ahead and try it out, Charlie,” John, sitting on the Brookshire sofa, told him after sending a quick text to someone, told him. “I think you’ll like it.”
A couple of minutes later, Charlie, sitting in the lounger with his ankles crossed (right over left so he could admire his anklet) and his hands behind his head watching the TV (in the corner between the Chesterfield couch and the Brookshire sofa), heard the back door open, then greeted George and Ken, trailing a few paces behind, who must’ve come through the backyards from Ken’s place. Oddly, they seemed to be moving with purpose.
George walked around the loveseat then between the Chesterfield couch and the ottoman as if headed to the Brookshire sofa. But he didn’t stop there. He kept coming around, arriving at the foot of the lounger at on one side just as Ken reached the opposite corner while John had moved behind the lounger.
Suddenly, Charlie’s danger signals went off, but it was too late. John grabbed his wrists as the other two each grabbed an ankle and pulled down, so that Charlie’s bare feet hung over the foot of the lounger. Then John dropped the backrest down so that the chaise lounger became a futon, making Charlie supine.
“Hey!” Charlie called out, startled, “What are y’all doing?”
“Sorry, Charlie,” John explained as Ken and George secured velcro-fastened cuffs around his ankles and tied their tethers to the legs at the foot of the lounger, “After missing out last night then hearing what happened later, Ken and George felt they deserved a turn too.”
“What is this, a contest?” inquired Charlie as Ken and George easily did the same to his wrists and they’d done to his ankles, forearms over the edge, bent at the elbow, despite his weak attempt to struggle free. “Are y’all keeping score or something?”
“Just be glad we’re not doing this at the get-together tonight,” Ken declared as he and George moved back to the foot of the now-futon.
“LET ME GO!” Charlie shouted defiantly, before a bout of giggling, without anyone having touched him, ruined the effect he’d intended.
“Not a chance,” replied George. “Not after you nearly kicked John in the face last night.”
“We’ll give you a choice,” Ken suggested. “We can do this now, or later tonight when everyone is here and afterwards leave you helpless like this in front of all the others.”
Struck mute with wide eyes, Charlie vigorously shook his head.
“Be specific, Charlie,” John instructed. “What do you want? Answer now, or we’ll take it to mean you want us to wait until tonight.”
“I want...,” Charlie started, “I want you to...,” pausing again, not believing he was having to actually ask for this. “I want you to tie me down and tickle my bare feet right now.”
As he and Ken sat down on the ottoman before his captive tootsies, Charlie was already squirming even though neither had touched his feet yet.
“Ten minutes, guys,” announced John, still at the head of the futon.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIIIIIIIT...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Charlie exploded as the two men at his feet began tickling full-force, his entire body going rigid and lifting off the futon, then writhing in ticklish misery as he screamed and guffawed with laughter.
After about half-a-minute, they reduced the intensity of their tickling to which Charlie merely squirmed wildy with helpless bubbling laughter and hysterical giggling.
“Ok, I’ve...teeheehee...had enough... hahahahahahaha... pleeeeeaaase... teeheeheehahaha!”
Ken and George occasionally delivered short bursts of hard sadistic tickling to his bare feet, at which John would reach down tickling his underarms, ribs, sides, and stomach, sending Charlie into panicked begging and pleading for mercy until the softer “gentler” tickling resumed. This pattern lasted for five minutes.
At the five minute mark, all three men launched into a bout of hard sadistic tickling that didn’t change back after a short burst. Initially, John had Charlie’s upper body to himself and left Charlie’s flailing feet and wriggling toes to Ken and George as he’d already had his turn the night before.
“HAHAHAHA-WHY-HAHAHA-ARE YOU-HAHAHA-DOING THIS-HAHAHA-TO ME-HAHAHAHA!!! Charlie wailed when he realized there wasn’t going to be a switchback to the softer playful tickling. No one answered.
Ken moved to his right so that he and John could tickle torture his upper body from both sides, leaving the tickle torture of his bare feet in George’s more than capable hands. He and George switched back and forth as Charlie squirmed and twisted and thrashed around wildly, screaming and laughing and begging and pleading. Eerily, the three men said nothing as they tormented their poor helpless ticklish victim without mercy.
But, true to John’s word, when the timer on his watch beeped, all tickling ceased immediately.
As Charlie lay unmoving trying to recover, still in his bonds, John told the other two, “C’mon, let’s get back to the kitchen to get everything ready. Our guests should all begin arriving in about thirty minutes.”
When the three men turned and began to walk away, Charlie became quite alarmed. “Hey! You can’t just leave me like this!”
The men kept walking away.
“Untie me! Let me go! Please!” Charlie was horrified at the thought of all those men who’d tickled him the night before finding him so helpless like this. “Don’t do this to me!”
The three men stopped and half-turned. “We should gag him,” Ken suggested.
“And blindfold him too,” George added.
“Please don’t leave me like this!” Charlie pleaded. “I’ll do anything! ANYTHING!”
“Anything?” John asked with a smirk. “That certainly covers a lot of ground. But for now, I know just the thing. I’ll be back in a moment.”
A couple of minutes later, Charlie heard John reenter the front room, then Ken and George begin snickering. Since they were standing in his view, he couldn’t see what caused their mirth at first. Then they parted to let John pass, and he groaned.
On the coat hanger John held in one hand was a renaissance faire tavern wench costume, sans shoes, of course. In the other hand was a bottle of Tickle Me Pink nail polish.
“What’ll it be, Charlie?” he offered. “Stay like that, bound, gagged, and blindfolded and listen as we regale our guests with elaborate details of what we did last night and just now before we turn them loose, or wear these tonight? Your choice.”
“Ok, fine,” Charlie surrendered indignantly. “I give in.”
“Better get cracking, then,” John suggested, “if you want to do a good job on your toenails. You can use the bathroom upstairs; I laid out a pair of toe separators on the counter there.”
As Charlie headed up the stairs, John called out, “When you come back down, bring all your stuff with you.”
The tavern wench costume included an off-the-shoulders white peasant blouse whose sleeves stopped a couple of inches below his elbows with elastic ends, a brown skirt that came down about four inches above his ankles, a strapless black bodice, and a pair of white cotton string bikini panties. There were also a mobcap (bonnet) and a white apron.
Since the nail polish was quick-drying, Charlie managed to finish in time, and while not salon-quality, it looked pretty decent.
When he came back down, the three men applauded and cheered and whistled. Once he came into the living room, George took his things back to the study.
“What’ll we say when everyone starts getting here?” Charlie asked John, which by then would be in about five minutes.
“Hmmm...,” John thought. “We’ll say this is your penalty for losing a bet over a game. They’ll love that, and won’t ask any probing questions.”
“Okay,” replied Charlie. “At least it sounds plausible.”
John pulled out his smart phone. “Do you remember that first photo we took Halloween night? Assume that position again.”
Charlie complied, reluctantly so without the aid of alcohol.
“Now, hold this sign—no, don’t read it yet—and think of how happy and relieved you are to be in this position rather tied, gagged, and blindfolded in the chaise lounger, then put that into your best smile.”
Estatic relief spread across Charlie’s face, brightening his smile and face, and John took a picture.
Charlie looked at the sign. It read, “This is my punishment for being a very naughty little girl.”
When Charlie started to protest, John held up his hand. “Save the questions until we’ve finished.”
Charlie frowned, but complied.
“Now, just a couple more, for which you need to sit on the chaise lounger.”
After he did so, Ken and George placed two throw pillows stacked one on top of the other under Charlie’s lower legs, with his bare feet hanging over the edge. Ken handed him another piece of poster board.
“Now, point your toes straight up and show us those pretty little bare soles.”
When John’d taken the shot, Charlie read the second poster. “BEWARE: My pretty little bare girl’s feet are exceptionally soft and unbearably ticklish!”
Ken handed him another poster board, side with writing again facing away, and John took another picture.
Charlie read the third poster. “There are witnesses here that can testify to the truth of the statement above.”
“Okay, Charlie,” John instructed, “curl your toes and point them forward so we can see your painted toenails.”
Ken placed a third poster board in his hands.
After he’d taken that shot and told Charlie it was the last one, Charlie read the fourth sign. “Ask the name of my toenail polish and take the answer as an invitation.”
A chill ran down his spine.
“Are we through now?” Charlie demanded. “What the hell?”
“Relax, Charlie,” John suggested upon seeing the look on Charlie’s face, “those were just for insurance and for the psychological effect they’ll having on you, knowing that I can send them out anytime this evening if you happen to resist.”
“Wh-what do you mean, re-resist?”
“Failing to fulfill requests, refusing instructions, trying to escape, being absent from any gathering without prior permission, any of those,” John informed him, “which might result in those pictures from last week going out in a mass text on the university system, or to the members of your former fraternity, or the parishoners at your church, or all of the above.”
Charlie looked as if he were trapped and knew it.
John laughed. “Relax, Charlie, this is just roleplay. It’s only a game, after all, not a matter of life and death.”
To the cat, maybe, thought Charlie, but not to the mouse.
Still, Charlie complied with the instructions and found he loved the new color, which was on the border between bright red and dark pink and could appear either depending on the physical context and light. It blended with his pale skin much better than the other.
I just hope no one asks me what color it is, he mused.
“What if I decide to just go get my clothes, change, and leave?”
“Do you know the combination to my office safe? That’s where George just locked them up.”
John’s pretense about his losing a bet helped Charlie feel a little bit less uneasy appearing as a ‘barefoot tavern wench’ since the men responded with laughter, even if some of it seemed more than a little bit randy. In addition to being in such a suggestively feminine costume, his ‘Tickle Me Pink’ toenails were a beacon drawing attention to his bare feet, still tingling and quivering fresh from that afternoon’s ticklish assault.
It was abundantly clear that seeing him in this new light incited all the men present to view him with different eyes. Charlie found himself responding paradoxically to feeling so sexually objectified as a simulated female by intensifying his feminine gestures and mannerisms, even openly flirting and teasing with his bare feet even more, all of which could’ve been called foolhardy had he had any control over it.
Unfortunately for Charlie’s new sources of anxiety, this get-together lasted several hours. All the regular attendees and several other men had shown up; in fact, other than the Christmas party, this was the largest gathering Charlie had been too here.
Though it quickly became clear that by now all the men had gotten word of his ticklish weakness, as the evening worn on Charlie’s apprehension nonetheless faded, then it disappeared entirely as he not only grew accustomed to the new state of affairs but seemed to thrive on it.
Every once in a while someone would poke his sides or ribs or scamper their fingers down his back to see him jump. More often, if he had his head turned at the moment and was sitting in the chaise lounger with his feet out or sideways in it with his knees to the back of the chaise lounger and his feet sticking out with soles accessible, they might deliver a brief surprise tickle to the soles of his bare feet. One might almost suspect Charlie was looking away on purpose.
At one point, the men wheedled ‘barefoot tavern wench’ Charlie into climbing onto the cocktail ottoman and modeling for them. After Charlie went through a few positions to much hearty encouragement from the spectators, John used his phone to turn on the stereo and an old early 1980s song Charlie knew, “Everybody Wants You”, came blaring from the speakers.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” he giggled sheepishly.
Nonetheless, he responded to the unspoken but clear suggestion by beginning to dance, wishing momentarily that he knew something other than dirty dancing, belly-dancing, and what he’d learned from strip-tease videos on Pornhub. The spectators, though, didn’t seem to mind even the tiniest bit. For a brief instant, he wished he had his belly-dancing outfit there; the secret female costume he wore to practice at home, not the male costume he wore to classes.
Charlie quickly dismissed the idea. Dancing for these men as a barefoot taven wench was bad enough; there was no way in hell he wanted them to see him in that.
“How about a round of applause for our Little Miss Pretty Feet?” George called. The response was applause, cheering, and quite a bit of whistling.
While this was going on John had pulled out his phone and started scrolling through photos. As the applause died out, notifications pinged the phones of every man in the room. Every man in the room turned almost in unison toward Charlie, grinning, then looked down at their phones once more when they pinged again.
“Oh, fuck me,” sighed Charlie, aloud but to himself. He flipped John off as every man in the room turned his way with hungry expressions.
A third ping and the men’s attention towards each other, searching faces until John, Ken, and George raised their hands over their heads pointing down towards themselves.
A fourth ping and they all looked at Charlie’s bare feet on the ottoman then at him and shouted in unison, “WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR TOENAILS PAINTED, CHARLIE?”
All Charlie could do was laugh at the absurdity of it as the all the men looked toward The Troika (which John, Ken, and George seemed to have become) for direction on what to do now. The three men had by then made their way to the ottoman, surrounding Charlie.
“Ok, guys, this is how it’s going to go,” announced John, as Charlie’s bare feet began to tingle and Ken and George went to retrieve the bondage equipment from earlier that afternoon. “I’ve been counting heads, and there are twenty-one of us present tonight…”
A few short minutes later, Charlie was bound to the recliner again, wrists together and arms overhead, ankles together with bare feet hanging over the edge. While John presided, Ken called out, “First up”.
The eighteen non-Troika men present had drawn numbered slips from Charlie’s bonnet to determine place in the tickle train. The Troika would take part, with John being the caboose.
The locomotive of the train came forward and sat on the stool placed before Charlie’s captive bare feet. “What color are your toenails painted, Charlie?” the man asked.
Once John had laid out the guidelines for this, Charlie had gone from feeling betrayed and scared shitless to amusement, and in answer to the question, he tittered out, “Tickle Me Pink!”
“Ten seconds,” George reminded him before pushing start on his phone’s timer. Immediately the man’s ten fingers began scampering up, down, and across the soles of Charlie’s bound bare feet.
Charlie burst out giggling. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, teeheehee, teeheehee, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, teeheehee.”
The same sequence took place for the next man. Besides a time limit of ten seconds per man, the guidelines also restricted the tickling to playful. At ten seconds by twenty-one playful ticklers, that came to just three and a half minutes total, not too bad at all, except for the embarrassment. As for that, Charlie was already dressed as a barefoot tavern wench.
After the tickling was over and Charlie released, he mounted the ottoman for more applause. The men also cajoled and prodded him quite persistently about being a barefoot tavern wench at evening get–togethers from now on.
Finally, George spoke up in response to their demands, “I so move”.
“And I second,” Ken replied.
“Then I call the vote,” John stated firmly, smiling though. “What say you, gentlemen; shall our Little Miss Pretty Feet serve at our get-togethers as a barefoot tavern wench once we resume in January?”
The response was loud and unanimous. “That makes it official, then,” John smiled lasciviously, “not that the outcome was ever in doubt.”
John did not ask for Charlie’s agreement, consent, or even capitulation, the submissive compliance of the subject, whether reluctant or enthusiastic, being casually taken for granted.
Which Charlie, standing prominently on the ottoman, affirmed by shrugging his shoulders, raising his hands palms outward, and nodding with a smile, which brought more applause.
The get-together broke up shortly thereafter. Before Charlie left, John proposed that since Charlie’s appearance as a barefoot tavern wench was going to be a regular thing now he should start shaving his entire body, except for the hair on his head.
Surprised that Charlie so easily agreed (being unaware Charlie had been doing so since preparing for Halloween), John seemed quite pleased, and thus inspired, pushed further.
“In addition,” he continued, “you should supplement the outfit with proper make-up. Something tasteful.”
Charlie nodded amiably. “Okay, I can do that.”
Appreciative that Charlie was being so pliable, John added, “And start coming by during the day every day then too, during breaks, if you have them and after classes.”
Chapter 5: Changes Of View
The thought of serving the men at get-togethers resuming in January with the stipulation he do so as a barefoot tavern wench all the time, rather than as a one-time stunt, both excited and disturbed Charlie as much as did the very fact it was all but compulsory.
And the thought of what just showing up at all would say to them about him after what happened last time.
I can’t believe I let them to that to me! Charlie berated himself one minute.
The next minute he wondered, But when and how will I get to let them do that to me again?
A minute after that would be, What’ll they think of me serving them as a barefoot tavern wench after last time?
Another minute later, I wonder if John might get me a shorter skirt.
Simply put, the question of whether or not Charlie would reappear to serve the men attending the gatherings at John’s house as a barefoot tavern wench was nonexistent, because for there to even be a question, there has to be at least a preon of doubt.
As usual, Charlie left his car on campus and walked the half mile from his parking spot on campus to John’s house in the Fort Timber neighborhood, which he’d known all along would be the case. He walked because street parking was limited to residents and parking at John’s was very limited.
It was mid-afternoon, and Charlie thought he’d early and be there as the men arrived for the get-together. But what he found when he sat on his stool to perform his shoe removal ritual was several men already in the living room. As he greeted the men greeting him, he was overwhelmed with feelings of…well, Charlie didn’t know what the fuck to call it, he was just happy to be back here.
He took his leave to head upstairs to the guest room, John excused himself and followed Charlie. Just as the latter was about to open the door to the guest bedroom, John caught his elbow.
“I know you’re supposed be a barefoot tavern wench this evening, but there’s been a change of plans that I like you’ll enjoy.” He opened the door for Charlie to walk through. The latter stopped dead in his tracks with his mouth open when he saw what was laid out on the bed for him.
After ten seconds, Charlie asked John, “Do you have a reusable shopping bag down in the kitchen?”
“Yes, of course, Charlie, several actually. I drive a Prius, after all.”
“I’m gonna need one.”
“For what?”
“Just please get it.”
While John was gone, Charlie mused that this outfit was a not-so-subtle way for John to check if he were shaving his body hair as instructed.
In about five minutes, John was back. Charlie took the shopping bag and insisted to John, “Wait outside the door while I change.”
A couple of minutes later, Charlie cracked the door about a foot and thrust the now-filled shopping bag at John. “Here’s my clothes, wallet, and phone; get my shoes on the way to your study and add them, then lock it all in your safe, because otherwise, unless I have no option to leave, there’s no fucking way on this Earth I’m coming down among those men in this outfit. It’ll take me five minutes of so to do my make-up, then I’ll be down.”
“Okay,” John chuckled, “if you insist.”
“I know exactly whose character on which show you’re trying to bring to mind, but you can damn well forget about me trying to put my hair in fucking pigtails.”
Looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he’d got butterflies thinking about other men seeing him like this. Then he changed his mental point of view; instead of looking at a reflection of himself, he made himself see the “girl” in the mirror as another person. Charlie felt a bulge grow in his hot pants and, even more embarrassingly, watched his enlarged nipples grow stiff and their shape become clearly visible.
Yeah, I’m a hottie, all right, Charlie admitted to himself more out of both reluctant acceptance of his situation and vanity. If I were one of the men, I’d stare at me too.
Seven minutes later, the busy conversation in the living room broke into silence as a pair of slender but smooth, shapely ivory skin-skinned legs began descending the stairs from the second floor.
As Charlie reached the ground level and began walking into the living room wearing low-cut blue denim hot pants and a fuschia short-sleeved off-the-shoulders peasant crop top, John announced to the group, “Gentlemen, welcome Cherry Ann.”
When some of them looked at him quizzically, he explained, “Mary Ann with red hair. Get it?” The men laughed and nodded, then gave Cherry Ann a standing ovation. John went on to decree that this is how the former Charlie would be known here from now on, and that her pronouns here were she and her.
As Cherry Anne went about her tasks that evening, she felt the men staring at her and her bare feet and legs more frequently and more brazenly than in the past. Now when she turned or looked up to see, she’d discover those doing the ogling no longer showing the smallest hint of reticence about their predatory gaze or lascivious smiles. Instead, they would look her directly in the eyes momentarily with almost a challenge, a sense of ownership.
Sporadic playful tickling became a consistent feature of get-togethers, at least for the first couple of weeks. Cherry Ann invariably blushed, but since it always seemed more playful than anything else, it never disturbed her too much, not even the two or three times when there was a brief gang-tickling.
After several nights this faded away, though she was still greeted with “Tickle, tickle, tickle!” or “Kootchie, kootchie, koo!”, and Cherry Ann was astonished to find she sort of missed it. Frustrated at this, she began randomly actually asking the men to tickle her bare feet, with the tacit agreement it would be under the same terms as the last pre-Christmas gathering (light-tickling for 10 seconds).
While it was clearly obvious The Troika and the other men enjoyed watching her dressed as Mary/Cherry Ann, Cherry Ann was startled to discover how much she herself enjoying being watched like that.
Though this outfit, with variations of top (such as a short-sleeved plaid crop top), quickly became Cherry Ann’s signature attire no matter the occasion (much like her namesake), over the next several weeks she sometimes wore a blue gingham minidress, a seifuku (Japanese schoolgirl uniform), a red minidress with white polka dots, on a couple of occasions, an ao dai (Vietnamese version of a Mandarin dress) sans the pants, and, of course, the tavern wench costume.
On Sunday afternoons, Cherry Ann would serve brunch to The Troika and a few other men, who altered every week, as a barefoot French maid. At these semi-formal affairs, there were no “shenanigans”, just brief glances, and only polite conversation with Cherry Ann.
The escalated scrutiny now that she was Cherry Ann was both scary and exciting at the same time, and to Cherry Ann it became a drug to which she was addicted. She pretended not to be affected by the increase in lewd attention, trying to appear oblivious to its new brazenness, but the blush and shy smile on her face gave her away.
Though she quickly become accustomed to feeling like a sheep among hungry wolves, she was afraid to become comfortable with it lest she lose control and revel in it. By the time that occurred to Cherry Ann, however, the ship was long gone from Glasgow harbor and halfway around the Horn of Africa on the way to India.
What intensified Cherry Lynn’s enthusiasm and eagerness was the fact that The Troika now compelled her to relinquish Charlie’s street clothes to be locked in John’s safe for the duration of her stay once she’d changed into whatever outfit they’d laid out for her, leaving her, in effect, a “captive” and completely at their mercy. The fact that Charlie himself unwittingly instigated this as standard operating procedure made it even more thrilling and delicious as well as ignomious.
Chapter 6: Turning Point
After several weeks, John put on catered but simple dinner for the seven men who most often spent time at John’s house. The food was delivered, but the only person serving it was Cherry Ann. Only a semi-formal affair, there were an apertif, a small appetizer, an entrée, a main course, salad after dinner, and a small cheesecake about an inch square for desert, followed by coffee and/or a digestif.
Cherry Ann was glad John owned a very large dishwasher. He had two in fact; one for every day use and one for occasions such as these.
Once satisfied that Cherry Ann had served after dinner drinks adequately, John held up his hand and the others all quieted.
“Now that everyone is fed and satisified and relaxing with their drink of choice, Cherry Ann will now perform a dance for us in a new costume that just arrived this afternoon.”
Turning to Cherry Ann, he instructed, “Follow me, please”.
They went upstairs to the guest bedroom. A clothing box lay on the bed.
Cherry Ann opened it and saw the contents, immediately recognizing its famous design. “Hell, no. There’s no fucking way I’m dancing in front of anyone wearing that.”
“Okay then, Little Miss Pretty Feet,” John said as he pulled out his smart phone and started scrolling through photos.
“Hey, wait, wait!” exclaimed Cherry Ann as she remembered what he’s said about ‘insurance’. “I give. I’ll do it. This just threw me off for a little bit, I’m sorry. Please.”
“I’ll step out to let you change,” John said. “I’ll be right outside the door, so let me know when you’re finished.”
Never in a million years had Cherry Ann thought she’d appear before other people dressed in anything like this. For in the box was a replica of the iconic Slave Leia metal bikini costume.
Identical to the original in overall design, it differed in that the ‘metal’ (rubber-coated wire) was silver rather than gold and the top and bottom were both black. In addition, the breech cloths were narrower, at about eight inches wide, and shorter, stopping a couple of inches above his ankles. The cups of the top were also much smaller.
Cherry Ann was not the least bit surprised that this costume fit her so well, since John had made sure to get all Cherry Ann’s physical measurements weeks ago.
“Ok, I’m ready,” Cherry Ann called, meaning her outfits were changed, not that hse was in any way emotionally prepared to be seen like this.
“You’ll no doubt do ample justice to that outfit,” John remarked as he appraised Cherry Ann’s new guise. “I did see moves from a belly-dancing class in your earlier performance, right?”
Cherry Ann was too nervous to do anything but nod.
“Wait in the doorway until I call you,” John told him. He then went downstairs, said something to the men, then Cherry Ann heard furniture being moved. When sounds stopped, he heard John call his name.
Cherry Ann was unprepared for the outbursts of cheering, remarks both rude and complimentary, and clapping and stomping of feet that broke out as soon as he appeared at the top of the stairs.
Arriving in the living room, he noticed immediately that the ottoman in the middle had been removed, leaving a sizable open space.
“Your stage, Little Miss Pretty Feet,” John told him, gesturing with his open hand to the center of the room.
Cherry Ann dropped the ankle-length silk robe John’d had her wear over her outfit, kicked it into a corner with a sexy sweep of her leg, and adopted a beginning pose in the center of the room, with her left heel against the side of her right ankle and her fingertips touching with her palms facing inward.
The opening chords of a song Cherry Ann knew quite well, Tito & Tarantula’s “After Dark”, sounded from the hidden speakers, and she smiled, closing her eyes. She started by planting her left foot down 12 inches from her right and rotating her hands palms outward, then began sensuously rotating her hips and undulating her stomach as she swayed to the rhythm.
As she moved, Cherry Ann could feel the eyes of all seven men riveted to her performance. Opening her eyes, she began slowly revolving in place, looking each of the watching men directly in the eyes as she did.
Closing her eyes again, she gyrated his way down to the ground then bent over backwards till her head touched the floor, waving her arms. Bending forward until her forehead touched the floor, she raised his head and opened her eyes to gaze directly at John. Gyrating upward now, she took a long stride toward toward John’s seat and proceeded to dance as if for him and him alone.
Rather than going around the room chair by chair, Cherry Ann turned around and danced her way toward the man almost directly across the room, continuing this criss-crossing of the floor until each man had had his own personal time.
The performance ended with Cherry Ann in the center of the room once more, prostrate on the floor with her arms out, hands palms down with fingers pointing directly toward John as the last notes of the song played. When the music finished, you could’ve heard a pin drop.
John began a slow clap, which the other men quickly picked up, with the applause rapidly increasing tempo and volume as Cherry Ann sat up, then stood and bowed to each member of his audience as the applause became a standing ovation.
The performance was no Santanico Pandemonium/Salma Hayek, but it had still been very good.
The next weekend, the one before Spring Break began, John and Ken held a big dinner party, the size of the early Christmas party in November and with many of the same people. All the regulars attended, and it was a much larger crowd than usual, especially because there were a number of women present, wives and girlfriends, as had been the case at Christmas. Even George had brought his wife.
The older adults had dressed in suits and semi-formal dresses. Cherry Ann had been instructed to once again wear the French maid outfit as he had done at the most recent coffee klatch.
Five girls from the university, similar to her in age, height, and androgynous body-type were also serving. Like her, all the girls were barefoot in French maid costumes. Each of them had pretty feet, he noted, wore an anklet identical to hers on her own right ankle, and had Tickle Me Pink polish on her toenails. Three of the girls she didn’t know before, but she was surprised and pleased to see the other two, her fellow Halloween victims Darly and June. When they first saw each other, they exchanged a look of shared horror, but then they were off to their tasks.
All of them were all too busy for the casual conversation where she could’ve inquired about that, so Cherry Ann waited to ask about it when the three former make-believe witch-sluts got together post-party.
After the party, the helpers did all the clean up. Tonight had been the first time Charlie had seen either Darly or June since Halloween, and he was dying to talk with them. Back in their regular street clothes, the trio went to a coffee shop near the campus and sat in a corner booth away from the rest of the customers.
“Well,” started Charlie, “here we are, together again.”
“Under much better circumstances,” continued Darly.
“Yeah, let’s NEVER do THAT again!” finished June, looking at Darly out of the corner of her eye surreptitiously as Darly did the same back.
“Did you two get any, um, anonymous messages after that night?” Charlie asked. “Maybe with video from that night?”
He learned that, in fact, they had gotten similar threatening messages about not talking, but they denied there’d been any more following. And, like him, they had gotten texts the morning after Halloween announcing they’d been black-balled from their respective groups.
“Do y’all miss it?” Charlie asked, referring to Greek life.
“After what they did to us?” Darly inquired dubiously. “Hell, no!”
“I think I can say for both us,” June interjected, “that getting blackballed was the best thing that every happened to us.”
“That night was soooo humiliating, but...,” Darly started, “I kind of...well, liked it too.”
“Same here,” added June, “on both counts. Well, sort of. I mean, when the girls tickled us they were pretty vicious about it, but the guys were more playful and that...made me sort of horny,” she finished, blushing.
“And how about you, Charlie?” Darly asked, with her right eyebrow arched.
Feeling safe around the two with whom he’d shared the experience, Charlie admitted that he’d secretly enjoyed ‘every single torturous minute’ and rationalized that by confiding in them about how he’d coped with the humiliation by fully sinking into his role and embracing it, not stopping to consider how much of a revelation that in itself might be or how that salacious tidbit in the wrong hands could be exploited against him.
“So,” Charlie asked, “why were y’all there helping out tonight?”
“We’re, um, employees, you could say,” June answered, with a slightly mischievous grin, “of, well, let’s call it a temp agency.”
Darly rolled her eyes. “It’s an escort service, Charlie, catering mostly to professional and otherwise affluent men.”
“This particular outcall was a lot different than we’re used to,” said June, “more money too.”
“Yeah,” Darly added. “All we had to do was serve food and drinks wearing these maid outfits that are only a little revealing.”
“So, how would I get this gig?” questioned Charlie.
“Well, that could be a problem,” June apologized. “All of us girls are university coeds. It’s part of the brand.”
“But for you, they just might make an exception,” Darly teased playfully. “You do make a very sexy girl, with cute little feet and pretty legs. Nice ass, too, by the way.”
“No doubt about it whatsoever,” June added, playing along. “And since you’re already helping out at the gatherings of one of their cells, as we’ve heard, which is how we got started, maybe it really could happen. Then we could be The Three Amigas.”
Darly looked at Charlie appraisingly. “Maybe,” she mused with a strange smile, more pensive than playful, nodding her head. “Yeah, I can see it. I think you’d be a great catch for them, and we’d love to have you with us.”
“I think you’d love it,” added her companion. “It’s very stimulating, and tittilating.” June winked at Darly. “But as much as I enjoy it, I’ve gotta admit that sometimes the job is a real pain-in-the-ass,” she added, giggling as she looked at Darly, who looked back.
“Yeah,” added Darly, also giggling, “and that’s the best part!”
Charlie just shook his head as they dissolved into laughter. He was mystified.
That night Charlie lay awake many hours pondering what he’d learned from his own insights and what Darly and June confided at the coffee shop.
At least the raging erection he’d gotten just from the sounds of their voices had told him, no, he hadn’t gone completely gay and was still bi.
[End Part 1]
Part 2: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...ning-Up-of-Cherry-Ann-(MMMt-Mx36t-FFt)-Part-2
Part 2: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...ning-Up-of-Cherry-Ann-(MMMt-Mx36t-FFt)-Part-2
The following story involves nonconsensual and consensual tickling and tickle torture, bisexuality, bigenderness, some bit of straight sex. I say story, but at 96 pages in MS Word 2007 Verdana 12, it's 96 pages long, more of a novella. So long that I've had to chop it up into two parts; this is Part 1.
Chapter 10 contains very, very graphic accounts of hardcore sex that can be interpreted as bi, gay, or straight depending on your POV and how you read the scenes.
Chapter 1: Halloween Night, A Prelude
Chapter 2: Halloween Tickle Hell
Chapter 3: The Grooming Begins
Chapter 4: The Trap Is Set
Chapter 5: Changes Of View
Chapter 6: Turning Point
Chapter 1: Halloween Night, a Prelude
Why did I have to be the witch? Charlie asked himself as he went from house-to-house in the well-to-do urban neighborhood trick-or-treating. A freshman pledge to a fraternity at the downtown university, he and his fellow pledges had been sent out this Halloween evening to collect candy, dressed in Halloween costumes. Traditionally female Halloween costumes.
The frat’s sister sorority on campus also sent out its own pledges to collect candy, but in another neighborhood. Those pledges were also told to wear stereotypically female costumes, with an emphasis on little girlish. The same was true for the frat’s little sisters, who sent out their aspiring little sisters under the same terms, to yet another neighborhood.
The candy was for charity, a local orphanage to which the door fees and other proceeds from tonight’s bash at the frat house would be donated. The frat’s annual Halloween bash was among the top events of the year for students at the university, especially those on Greek Row, a joint venture between the frat and its sister sorority.
The Halloween event raised money in three ways. First, there was a fee at the door. Second, there was a haunted house laid out through three floors, ending in the attic. Third was the special project for which an aspiring member from each of the three related organizations were chosen to help with in the large party room in the open finished basement.
The frat’s pledges were instructed to make themselves as passable as possible, meaning no facial or visible body hair. Charlie went the extra mile and removed it all. Clothing and accessories for the costumes had to be purchased from the thrift store operated by the orphanage. With the frat, the pledge most female in appearance would get to help out with what was touted would be the top money-maker of the evening, something new that year the groups were trying out.
For our protagonist, there was no question that he’d win. At age 18, Charlie was a petite 5’4” and a willowy 108 lbs., with lightly-freckled ivory skin and hazel eyes. For tonight, he wore his thick wavy golden red hair in a page boy cut, complete with bangs, that fell halfway down the nape of his neck. Earrings dangled from both his pierced lobes. Where other pledges opted for more of an outlandish drag queen look with their make-up, Charlie had instead chosen one more passably, if super slutty, female.
Charlie’s most girlish feature were his small, narrow bare feet with slender toes, though he couldn’t imagine them been seen tonight. Which for Charlie was a good thing, being too embarrassed about others seeing his pretty bare feet to show them in public since he’d been teased so much over his tender little ‘sissy feet’ as a kid.
Charlie had always been insecure about his stature (especially after learning his was the average height for a woman), his almost girlish good looks, and his ‘sissy feet’, but for this contest all that would be now an advantage; his liability would for once be an asset. Winning would give him a chance to show the brothers what he could to and that he was a good choice for active membership.
Two little sisters had been assigned to each of the pledges to help them with their costumes and their transformation, and it was they who determined the costume. Charlie’s was a long-sleeved black micro-minidress cinched by a wide black belt around his higher-than-normal-for-a-guy waist, a pointed black witch’s hat, and, the reason for his complaint, black paten leather pumps with 3-inch block heels. Block heels with round toes, maybe, but still heels.
At least they’re not point-toed 6-inch stilettos, he mused gratefully.
The neighborhood he and the other frat pledges had been assigned was an old one of well-kept vintage homes adjacent to the campus. Greek Row lay on the other side. The owners were all professors at the university and other professional people such as doctors and lawyers, some of them quite wealthy, so the haul was pretty good. Which was great, except that the heavy swaying bag of candy made walking in the heels even more difficult.
* * * * *
There was a sense of familiarity as Charlie walked up the sidewalk to the next home, an old Tudor-style house, quite large, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
He knocked on the door with the heavy brass fixture, and when the door opened, he blanched.
This must be where that sense of familiarity comes from, he realized.
Back during the summer at the earliest pre-class rush party, two alumni of his fraternity from a different chapter at a different school had shown up and invited the brothers, pre-pledge aspirants, and little sisters to a party at their house the following weekend.
While the others danced, played drinking games, or swam in the heated pool, Charlie spent a lot time in intellectual conversations with the two hosts and their girlfriends and struck up a friendship with the pair of men almost immediately. Charlie was pleased the older adults had taken an interest.
After uni, Ken, third-generation Irish-American and 6’1”, had gone to med school, while John, Afro-American and 6’3”, now both in their mid-40s, attended law school, both graduating at the top of their classes, both afterwards serving in the army overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan.
After the army, the two close friends had resettled here in the city, both in houses in this Victorian neighborhood. In fact, their houses and yards were back-to-back facing opposite streets on the same block. As for their professional lives, John was one of the prominent attorneys in the city and Ken was top surgeon at the local public hospital. Both men were married to women from the city but had chosen to remain on active duty.
They’d invited him to come back anytime, and he had dropped by several times that summer. He was only dimly aware of a reticence to show up there alone and usually came with Sam, his best friend in the frat. With classes, homework, and fraternity, he hadn’t found the time once school started, though. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t valued their expressed admiration of his intellect and dry sense of humor. That these two well-accomplished older adults had taken such an interest in him was extremely flattering to the young university student.
Now here he was, dressed up like a female witch for this silly charade, and he just knew their high opinion of him was about to collapse.
“My, don’t you make a pretty little witch!” John exclaimed. At Charlie’s crestfallen expression of embarrassment, he laughed. “Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ve been here a few years so we know all about your chapter’s Halloween activities. Good job on the costume, I must say; if I didn’t know you already I’d’ve taken you for one of the sorority pledges or aspiring little sisters.”
Charlie’s face blushed as he smiled, not knowing whether to be mortified or flattered. “Thanks, John, I’m really hoping to win the contest this year.”
“Hey, Ken,” John called over his shoulder, “look who finally decided to drop back by?”
Ken came to the door, and when he saw Charlie, he smiled and his pupils dialated briefly before his eyes grew wide in recognition. “Wow!” he exclaimed, then added, “The fraternity?”
Charlie just nodded.
“Why don’t you come in and sit down for a few minutes? Take your shoes off and put your feet up, give them a break from those godawful heels.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Charlie begin with a sigh of relief, then paused. Ordinarily shy about going barefoot in front of others, he demurred. “But I don’t want to be late getting back for the party. It’s our biggest fundraiser of the year.”
“I’m sure you can spare ten or fifteen minutes,” John persisted.
“Sure you can,” Ken added. “We’re just about to bring out 16-year old Islay single malt.”
Charlie’s eyes lit up. “Well, if you insist and bribe, how can I to refuse?”
He walked the short distance down the foyer, and as he turned into the huge front room, he saw a four-person leather Chesterfield couch on the back wall, a three-person Bridgewater fabric sofa flanking it with its back to the front window, a rattan loveseat opposite the sofa facing the window, and an upholstered armchair opposite the couch. In the center was a round cocktail ottoman four feet in diameter, and there were tables next to the seats.
“You’ve redecorated,” Charlie noted, as Ken went to retrieve the Scotch and three glasses.
“Yes,” replied John, “we’ve been having gatherings here for intellectual discussion and drinks, sometimes dinner. You should drop by for one sometime.”
“I’ll probably do that,” Charlie said.
“You can sit in the armchair,” John directed him, “and put your feet up on the ottoman after you remove your shoes.”
Just then, Ken returned with the Scotch and poured three glasses, handing the one with a double shot to Charlie and one a single shot to John before pouring himself a single shot.
Charlie set his drink on the table next to the armchair, then bent over to remove his pumps.
“Oh, thank God!” he exclaimed as he wiggled his toes, then he looked down.
Damn, I’d forgotten about that! As part of his persona and to help him get into the mood (or so he told himself), he’d gotten a professional pedicure (which he usually did himself), complete with exfoliation and paraffin bath, and had his toenails painted. It was supposed to be his secret.
What the hell, he thought, my feet are killing me.
Taking a small sip of the Scotch, he laid his head back and closed his eyes, swirling it in his mouth, then swallowed, putting his bare feet up on the ottoman as he did so. “My legs! My feet! How do women do this all day?” Relieved to be free of their confinement, they were paddling back and forth and curling and flexing over and over again as well as wiggling their toes.
He raised his head and opened his eyes to find both men gaping at his bare feet with their bright red toenails. A little startled at the intent with which they did so, his toes curled reflexively, causing John and Ken to look up. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten that reaction from other males, especially older men, which was one reason why he never went barefoot in public.
“We were just admiring your pedicure,” John said, in an attempt to cover and deflect Charlie’s attention from their reaction. “Professional job?”
Charlie took another small sip of Scotch. It was relaxing. “Of course,” he smiled, “I am trying to win the pledges’ best dress-up contest after all.” It was the best excuse he could think of.
“Well, I have to say, you really went all out,” Ken remarked.
Charlie looked at his feet absently, curling his toes forward then flexing his soles back and spreading them out. He liked the fact that his second toes were just slightly longer than his big toes. “I chose this particular shade, Fire Engine Red, in defiance of my holier-than-thou mother. The bitch called it ‘*****house red’ when my sister wore it.”
Why did I tell them that? he wondered.
“I’ve got to get a picture of you in this outfit!” exclaimed John as he pulled out his smart phone. “Smile for the camera!”
Charlie curled his toes reflexively just as John took the picture.
“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” John said, “but you have really small feet for a guy, even one your height.”
“Yeah, I know,” replied Charlie, blushing. “I’m 5 1/2 in men’s shoes.”
“Really? That small?” said Ken.
Charlie took a bigger sip of Scotch.
“And those?” Ken asked, gesturing with his eyes at the pumps on the floor.
“They’re size 7B,” Charlie answered, smiling distractedly at his wiggling toes. “A woman’s size 7B, naturally.”
“You’re what, 5’4”, right?” John remarked pedantically. “That’s the median height for women in the U.S., if you didn’t know. For a woman your height, the average shoe size is 8C.”
While Charlie was already uncomfortably aware of the first fact, until now the second hadn’t occurred to him. John’s dispassionate clinical tone imparting those statistics was worse than if it’d been teasing or mocking.
“5’4” and 7B, eh? And you’re what, 105?” asked Ken.
“Almost. 108,” Charlie replied.
“Then you have nearly identical stats to a certain adult entertainer who’s at the top of her industry.”
Charlies blushed. He knew the one, anyone would. And although he knew this already, this was not the most comfortable of circumstances for that to come up in, though understandable in his current guise.
Charlie suddenly felt even more shy and insecure about his bare feet, though he cut short his urge to remove them from the ottoman and tuck them under his thighs so as not to give that away.
Taking another sip of Scotch, he focused his own gaze as well as his speech on the source of his inhibition.
“I’ve always had problems with shoes,” Charlie began babbling, “because I have such narrow feet, plus how narrow the heels area in relation to the balls of my feet. I found that out after seeing a specialist when I was a kid.” He took another sip of Scotch.
“He recommended that I wear girl’s sneakers, at least for every day,” he told them with a nervous giggle. “He told me that was because, and I quote, ‘in simple terms, you have a girl’s feet’.”
What am I saying?
Charlie was too embarrassed to look up at their reactions, but if he had, he would have found their gaze riveted on his subject.
Charlie’s humiliation was complete, though with the Scotch he didn’t mind so much. But part of him felt strangly relieved. Other than his parents, he’d never told that to another living soul, and had no idea why he was now being so indiscreet.
Oh my God, I do have girl’s feet! Charlie’s eyes had grown wide in clarity. When men stare at them, are they aware, or is it their subconscious?
He began to giggle helplessly for no reason outwardly apparent to the two older men as he continued to gawk at the source of that anxiety as if for the first time, a discomfiture somewhat alleviated by the perception of its cause. Maybe saying it out loud had done the trick.
He looked up to find the two men peering at him incredulously.
“You certainly seem amused about something,” John remarked.
“I have girl’s feet!” Charlie proclaimed giddily, Scotch having robbed him of discretion. He’d thought he was a pervert for getting turned on by his own feet, but now that made sense, and even more embarrassing, a fact he managed to keep to himself.
“Yes, you certainly do,” said Ken the medical professional, who’d been clinically examining them once the conversation went there, along with his other motivations. “I knew there was something about them, but couldn’t put my finger on it. And it’s not just your ball-to-heel ratio; it’s the shape and length of your arches and toes too.”
John laughed. “So why do you find it so funny?”
“I dunno...it’s just...I haven’t thought about it in a long, long time. It was so mortifying I buried it really deep and hadn’t remembered it until, well, now.” Charlie’s hands were covering his face. “And I just realized it’s why I’ve always been so embarrassed about going barefoot.”
Several minutes and more light chit-chat later, about things other than his ‘girl’s feet’, and Charlie’s glass was empty. He bent over to put on the pumps, but John stopped him, requesting, “Before you do that, how about one more picture before you go, standing up this time.”
“Ok, sure,” Charlie yielded, chuckling, “why not?”
At John’s direction, Charlie stood with his legs together and his feet turned outward with his arms, palms forward, held out at a forty-five degree angle from his body, with a bright smile, then snapped a photo with his smart phone.
Being tipsy, Charlie barely needed to be coaxed into posing for a few more shots. The second shot was of him lying on the cocktail ottoman on his stomach with his knees bent and feet up, ankles crossed and toes curled, chin resting in his palms. The third was a shot from the side of him sitting on the ottoman with his right leg out and left leg bent at the knee with his sole against the side and toes curled against it as he looked left and arched his back.
The fourth and final was a side shot of him against the jamb of the doorway into the foyer with his right leg raised waist-high with his curled toes pointed at the ground and his head thrown back and turned to the right.
All three were acting pretty giddy throughout the picture-taking. The whole time Charlie clowned around, laughing. For the final shot, he even pursed his lips at the camera.
Putting his shoes back on with a groan a few of minutes later, crossing his legs to do so, Charlie stood up to take his leave.
“I’ll be sure to drop by for one of those gatherings,” he told them at the door.
“We call some of them ‘get-togethers’,” John informed him. “We’ll explain the difference later. Your presence will be greatly appreciated.”
As Charlie sashayed down the walkway to the street, he thought about how much more animated than usual John and Ken had seemed during their conversation. Suddenly it hit him that almost the whole time he was there they’d both been leering and peering at his bare feet.
Oh my God! Charlie gasped to himself. Then he admitted that the conversation had done nothing to deflect their attention and recalling their reactions played to his vanity, so he turned and smiled, waving over his shoulder ebulliently.
Must’ve been the Scotch, he told himself.
It never occurred to Charlie to wonder why John’d insisted on taking the pictures of him in costume nor to entertain doubts about why he’d intervened before he put the pumps back on for the picture-taking nor to wonder why he’d had him assume those specific positions.
The events that followed completely erased the memory from his mind; well, almost, anyway.
Chapter 2: Halloween Tickle Hell
A few more houses later, Charlie arrived back at the frat house and gratefully relieved himself of the overloaded bag of candy.
One of the brothers ushered him into the small rarely-used breakfast room and had him sit at the round table. Two girls likewise dressed as witches already sat there. Once he was seated, the brother left the room, closing the door.
During small talk as they awaited to be called for their party in the big-fundraiser, Charlie learned that Darly, a blonde, was a pledge for his frat’s sister sorority and that June, a brunette, was an aspiring little sister. Both were about the same height as he, both skinny like him, and seemed to know each other fairly well.
After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, Darly looked at him quizzically. “During the time that we’ve been yakking, I realize you seem familiar.”
“I’ve been having the same feeling about you two,” Charlie admitted.
“Now that you mention it, Darly, yeah,” agreed June. “Did you used to wear your hair shorter than it is?”
“Yeah, I started growing it out my senior year,” Charlie answered.
“Oh! I know!” cried June. “From belly-dance class!”
“You’re right!” exclaimed Darly, then turned to Charlie. “You remember now?”
Indeed he did. He’d taken them for several months as a way to meet girls during his high school junior year. It worked out better than he’d hoped, him being the only male student, though he’d been too clueless or shy to strike up anything other than friendship, no matter how much he wanted or how strong his hormones raged. But it’d been a large class, in addition to it being two years ago, and damn, were they hot now. So it’d taken him a bit to remember.
Charlie’d left the class after four months, though he kept practicing with instructional and performance videos on Youtube. Darly and June stayed until the end of their respective junior years, and although attending different high schools, remained in touch off and on throughout the summer and their senior year.
* * * * *
Just as the three were beginning to become both bored and anxious, two representatives from each of the three organizations came into the room, each of the three teams carrying a length of rope and a black scarf.
“Stand up and face the wall, putting your hands together behind your backs,” the three were told. They hestitated briefly, but did as they were told.
“What are you...,” Charlie asked as they started to bind his wrists.
“Silence!” ordered one of the brothers. “This is part of the procedure.”
The three were led to the great room on the first floor, where the chapter had its weekly business meetings. At a table in the end of the room next to the front of the house sat the presidents of the fraternity, sorority, and little sisters, dressed in judges’ robes. The brothers, sisters, little sisters, and pledges sat in chairs lining the room and filling two-thirds of the floorspace.
“Bring the prisoners forth,” the fraternity president, Greg, ordered, “and have them kneel before their judges.”
The three were brought before the “judges”, facing the table, and made to kneel. To relieve their anxiousness, the judges broke character and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” the sorority president, Betty, told them. “This is only roleplay.”
“Yeah,” added the head little sister, Dorothy, “just part of the act.”
The three judges resumed their stern roles.
“The three wenches before you have been judged guilty of witchcraft and of seducing men for their own amusement...,” at the latter of which all three ‘prisoners’ turned bright red, for different reasons, “they shall therefore be taken from here and confined in such a manner that our citizens and guests may turn the tables and use them as targets of amusement and ridicule. For a fee, of course,” Greg finished with a wink.
Charlie and his two companion witches were then taken downstairs. Trying to walk in heels on the stairs with his wrists tied behind his back made him skittish, something he was sure Darly and June were also feeling.
When they reached the basement, the three prisoners were led to the far corner in which sat three stout armless wooden chairs behind a wooden device with six holes in pairs that where about three inches apart, with the pairs spaced evenly from each other.
“What is THAT thing?” Darly exclaimed.
“Those are called stocks,” answered one of the little sisters. “They’re for the punishment of witches and other sinners.”
“I don’t know about this,” said June reluctantly.
“I’m sure it will be all right,” Charlie offered encouragingly. “Whatever’re they going to do to us can’t be too bad, can it?”
“You really think so?” asked Darly, both skeptically and hopefully.
“Well, Charlie says it’ll be okay,” replied June, “and I trust him. After all, he’s in the same boat as the two of us.”
Their handlers sat each of them down in one of the heavy wooden chairs, which were plushly-cushioned at the seat and the back, bringing their bound wrists over said backs. They then made several loops of rope around the prisoners’ upper torsos and the backs of the chairs, securing them in place when they tied the ropes off.
None of the three “witches” made any attempt to protest this, but that ability was soon taken away with a strip of duct tape across their mouths. The three prisoners suddenly became aware they might be in trouble.
Charlie could hear whimpers of fright coming from his two ‘witch’ companions. Then he realized one of those whimpers was his own.
The handlers opened the stocks and lifted their legs then set them down on the padded bottom halves of the ankle holes. With their feet held in place by their handlers, one of the fraterinity brothers closed the wooden top bar. Afterwards, he squatted down and they heard a metallic click, the sound of a padlock being closed.
When the hands released their ankles, all three instinctively pulled back. Finding themselves trapped, they began to struggle. Darly’s and June’s muffled protests mirrored Charlie’s own.
Charlie looked quickly around the room and took stock of the situation. He and the other two prisoners, with him in the center, were the base of a triangle the apex of which was one corner of the open basement, opposite the corner with the bar and sound system. Chairs and benches lined the rest of the walls. To one side of the apparatus in which Charlie was held was a table and chair, with a cash box on top.
The two fraternity brothers (Charlie couldn’t remember their names) picked up a large piece of plywood and brought it before the three “witches”. A second after the two flipped it over to show them what was written on the other side, Charlie gasped, then began struggling furiously, as did his companions.
While the two frat brothers hung this sign above the heads of the three unfortunate prisoners, the two sorority sisters and the two little sisters placed signs on stands flanking the stocks which offered further encouragement.
Why do guys pay to tickle girls’ feet? Try it and find out!
Have a romantic rival, girls? Take it out on a stand-in!
The three teams of captors squatted down and each removed a shoe from the feet of the prisoner of their respective organization. Charlie’s face turned crimson as the two stared lecherously at his bare feet before continuing with their preparations.
“My, my, my!” one of them exclaimed as he and his fellow exposed Charlie’s bare feet with their ‘*****house red’ toenails. “Someone went a little overboard for their role!”
“Very nice!” added the other, admiringly. “You have prettier feet than a lot of girls.”
And Charlie had thought before that he couldn’t be any more humiliated than being locked in stocks for all to see.
Glancing at the bare feet of his two companions, having an extreme foot fetish himself, he noted that by chance their toenails were painted the same shade as his own. That he was in the same position as they, with bare feet on public display to be ogled and leered at as if he were a real girl, made him feel acutely self-conscious, shy, and submissive.
The last preparation consisted, ominously, of placing a wooden stool two feet away from each pair of trapped bare feet.
“We’re so grateful to you for doing this,” said one of the little sisters merrily. “It’ll our biggest money-maker of the night!”
After the handlers placed pillowcases over their heads, the nervous trio heard their footsteps echo on the tile floor then as they headed up the wooden stairs, laughing.
* * * * *
At first, he’d been terrified, then dejected, then rejected, then betrayed, then panicked, struggling until he exhausted himself. Like his two fellow soon-to-be victims.
Charlie had always been fascinated by the idea of tickle torture. When he was little, he would actually beg older relatives to tickle his bare feet. It never lasted more than a couple of minutes, usually just half a minute or even a few seconds, so for little Charlie, it was fun.
Then in middle school, an older bully in the neighborhood tickle-tortured him ever chance he got. Pouncing on the younger, much smaller lad, the bully would cheerfully announce, “Time to play Chinese tickle torture!”, then the hell would begin. He always followed the same routine; start out tickling Charlie’s upper body until all the fight was tickled out, pull off his shoes and strip off his socks while laughing at his pleas for mercy, then tickle-torture his bare feet, by far the worst for Charlie, until he was in tears.
Every time when it was over, the bully would actually thank Charlie “for playing”, always adding that “one of these days I should drag you back to my clubhouse in the woods, tie you up real good, and invite all the kids in the neighborhood to tickle your bare feet…after they’ve purchased a feather to do so from me, of course.” That never happened, but Charlie always feared it might, which made his occasional random forays into those very woods both daring and stupid.
Since then, the thought of actually being tickle-tortured for real, rather than just in his fantasies, was too much to bear. And now here he was, completely helpless, with his worst nightmares about to come true in the most horrible way possible. Even more shamefully mortifying was the fact that his most favorite imaginary scenario put him in this very same role, as a female witch slut sentenced to be publicly tickle-tortured on the bottoms of her helpless bare feet.
To stave off panic, Charlie did calculations in his head. There would be twelve five-minute sessions per hour per “volunteer”. There were three victims, so thirty-six five-minute sessions per hour. At $20 per five-minute session, that meant up to $720 in “donations” per hour. Up to $1420 in two hours. Possibly $2160 in three hours. Beyond that, he was too afraid to consider.
That done, his desperate mind began to wonder if his former antagonist was somehow involved in this scenario. Though since the bully had been living in Bangkok for years, there was no chance of that.
Soon, Charlie heard footsteps, bangs, crashes, and screams coming from upstairs as as the first wave of guests progressed through the haunted house.
Maybe it won’t be too bad, Charlie told himself wishfully. I mean, it’s just tickling, right? But he had a feeling he’d soon regret having gotten that pedicure this afternoon.
When he heard several pairs of steps descending the wooden staircase, Charlie’s senses instantly went on high alert. The bottoms of his trapped bare feet began to tingle with anticipation.
“OH MY GOD!” someone cried out, before a chorus of similar exclamations flooded the room.
“Yes, yes, it’s for real,” Charlie heard one of the brothers explain.
“Can I tickle all three or do I have to pay for each?”
“I think I may have to go visit the ATM on campus.”
“I’m sooo glad I got my stilleto manicure today!”
All three prisoners were now panicking, struggling in their bonds trying to plead for mercy past their duct tape gags.
Just as the three were about to go crazy with anticipation, their hoods were removed, revealing their faces to the eagerly awaiting customers.
The frat brother standing at the table then annnounced, “Behold, the shameless sluts here to be punished for their manifold sins and wickedness!”
The crowd enjoyed the embarrassment of the helpless “sinners” immensely.
The brother at the table rang the large bell that had been sitting on his table to signal for silence.
When the crowd had stopped giggling and chattering, he recited from memory the words written on the sign above the heads of the “prisoners” which had caused them such distress.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! The witches before ye, concubines of Satan, are guilty of witchcraft, seducing men for their own amusement, and generally wreaking havoc on the peace of our community. They have therefore been confined here to face the community against whom they have transgressed that ye may tickle torture the soles of their bare feet until the evil is purged from their souls.”
He said this with the the voice of the town cryer as which he was dressed, adding in a normal tone of voice, “$20 for 5 minutes”.
Charlie’s vision tunneled, focusing on his ‘*****house red’ toenails as he desperately tried to will his nervously wriggling feet to stay still and not drawn attention to themselves.
Charlie heard Darly start giggling on his left, quickly escalating to laughter. Then June exploded in hysterical laughter on his right, dying down to helpless bubbling laughter.
The buxom senior girl with the stiletto nails sat down on the stool before his bare feet. “This is for stealing my boyfriend, you dirty little *****!” she exclaimed merrily. Then Charlie screamed as her terrible fingernails started scampering over his soles and he wailed in misery at the wave after wave of intense ticklish sensations coursing through his body.
And so it continued the rest of the evening. Fortunately, only a few tickled viciously, drawing anguished screams, tortured laughter, and agonized convulsions from the victims of their sadistic assault. Some alternated styles back and forth between light and hard tickling. But most of their torturers, fortunately, tickled playfully, teasing them verbally and taunting them with their helpless vulnerability, which was in some ways more humiliating if less agonizing.
As time passed, Charlie found himself gradually sinking, against his will, deeper and deeper into his involuntary role until he was totally immersed in it. In his mind, he became an actual girl, a slut and a witch who deserved to be punished and was getting exactly what she deserved.
Periodically, the corner was cleared and the ticklees given a brief, very brief, rest period that included a small amount of cool water to soothe their throats and replace the fluids that exited their bodies in the form of sweat and tears. But then would come the dreaded announcement, “Alrighty now, break time is over!”, and the hell would start again, and immediately so, since the next ticklers had already gleefully paid their fees.
Well into the night, Charlie was so dazed that he was beyond resentment, beyond humiliation, beyond regret. There was nothing in the world but tickling. Fingers and fingernails scampering madly across his helpless soles and toes.
After three hours, the town-cryer frat brother pronounced the full atonement of the prisoners, who were released from their bondage to join the party. Charlie felt as stoned as if he’d smoked a bowl of Tennessee wonder weed himself, but without the drowsiness, and, strangely, quite energized despite his physical exhaustion.
All three ‘witches’ were forced to remain barefoot for the rest of the evening, including while they helped with clean-up after all the festivities had ended. For the remainder of the party, though, they removed themselves to the ground floor, well away from the stocks, sitting in a corner well away from everyone else, hardly saying a word.
* * * * *
When he awoke the next morning, Charlie had no idea where he was at first. Then he realized he was in his own bed, though it took him several minutes to recall driving home. He had barely the strength and mobility to shower last night; removing the toenail polish had to wait until today. Fortunately, he had the upstairs to himself since his sister went away to an ivy league uni in the northeast on a full scholarship.
Just then, his phone signaled he had received a text message. He opened it to find: “Thank you for graciously volunteering to help out with the special fund-raiser last night. With your help, we raised over $2000 for the orphanage. However, you make way too good a girl to be a brother, so you have been BLACKBALLED.”
* * * * *
It took Charlie all weekend long to physically recover from his ordeal. He was still sore and stiffven on Monday, still in a bit of a daze. But as the week progressed, he got better.
Psychological recovery was another story. Especially after the anonymous messages started.
That very Monday afternoon, he got a link to an ad from a personals site that had stepped into the Craigslist void, and when he clicked on it, it read: “Girls, it pays to get tickled: $100 for one hour of tickling your bare feet.”
Oh my God, no fucking way! Someone really has a sick sense of humor, Charlie said to himself, then thought, but at least that would be better than having it done to me for free.
The next day came a link to what looked like a professional commercial ad: “Upscale company catering to select, discreet clientele seeks young women for fetish modeling. Young men truly passable as female considered.”
Later in the week, some anonymous person emailed him a link to a vidclip of the ordeal.
Of course, someone recorded it, he thought mournfully. Probably several someones.
The recording, which was quite clear, began with a wide shot of all three ‘witches’ being tickled, then focused on each one individually, first showing a complete shot, then focusing on their feet flailing madly and toes wriggling wildly as they struggled futilely in their bonds, then a close-up of each victim’s clearly recognizable face.
He scrolled down to see if there was an accompanying message. There was.
“Talk, and we will get you and your pretty little soft bare girl’s feet and this will happen to you again, only much, much worse. We know where you live, where you eat, where your classes are. Tickle! Tickle! Tickle!”
Had Charlie even considered telling anyone, he might’ve been worried. But the ordeal was way too humiliating to share.
A brief daydream that he had talked, and was caught, kidnapped, stripped, and forced to relive the ordeal all over again gave him a moment of terror. Strangely followed by excitement. Then arousal, but only after he forced himself to envision other captors in the scenario, faceless ones whom he did not know, and because of the context, all men.
He wondered whether Darly and June had told anyone, and whether the two of them had received such a message also. And whether they were plagued by the same thoughts.
A week later, Charlie received an text with another ad from the same site as before that had a more chilling message: “I’d love to get your pretty little soft bare feet in my stocks so you can amuse me and my friends. Then entertain us in other ways.”
This sent shivers down Charlie’s spine. And he couldn’t stop his mind from replaying the scenario with the faceless captors, now wearing black hoods. Ashamed and chagrined that these fantasies filling his consciousness when they unstoppably arose turned him on so much, he was nevertheless terrified they would somehow come true.
After another week, Charlie received a second video of that night, solely of him. One of the male party attendees was playfully tickling his helpless bare feet. From a long shot of the scene, the video focused in on his flailing feet and wriggling toes, then traveled slowly up his long, shapely bare legs and quivering torso before resting on his face. While Charlie giggled helplessly in what appeared to be cheerful delight as if he were enjoying the torment of his tender bare soles, the following words scrolled across the screen as a chorus of three disguised voices read them aloud in perfect harmony:
You let this happen
You wanted this to happen
You’ve always wanted this to happen
Why else make yourself into such a sexy little slut?
Why else allow yourself be made so helpless?
Why else pamper your precious tootsies with such intent?
Why else show off such pretty little soft bare feet so...wantonly?
And you thoroughly enjoyed it, didn’t you?
The rapturous look on your face here
Betrays your secret, the unambiguous truth
You loved every single torturous minute of it
And you yearn for it to happen again...and again
To be kidnapped, held captive, helpless
Completely at the mercy of your male captors
And tickle-tortured without limit or reprieve
Into wholehearted sexual submission
Tickle! Tickle! Tickle!
You wanted this to happen
You’ve always wanted this to happen
Why else make yourself into such a sexy little slut?
Why else allow yourself be made so helpless?
Why else pamper your precious tootsies with such intent?
Why else show off such pretty little soft bare feet so...wantonly?
And you thoroughly enjoyed it, didn’t you?
The rapturous look on your face here
Betrays your secret, the unambiguous truth
You loved every single torturous minute of it
And you yearn for it to happen again...and again
To be kidnapped, held captive, helpless
Completely at the mercy of your male captors
And tickle-tortured without limit or reprieve
Into wholehearted sexual submission
Tickle! Tickle! Tickle!
Tacked onto the end of the clip was a photo of three evil clowns, presumably the owners of the three voices, each holding a feather, an email address at the bottom inviting Charlie to contact ‘der-kitzler.garglolagnia666’.
For Charlie, this was way too close to home, hitting him with the force of a supernova.
Charlie’s way of handling anxiety was to allow himself to become engrossed by whatever the source of stress was in the hope that he’d become numb to its effects, often to the point of being spellbound. So, after his Halloween ordeal, he’d returned to crossdressing in the privacy of the second floor of his parents’ home, which he’d abandoned after high school.
Because the messages and videos had freaked him out so much, he felt compelled to go farther, so he also ordered online a nipple enlargement tool that worked with suction and minor electric pulses. The process called for twelve thirty-minute treatments, then a weekly follow-up. His areolas grew a bit larger, but his nipples had gotten huge. He’d just wanted to try it out, to see for a bit what having large nipples was like.
This last message made him question his motives, for which he’d attributed a morbid sense of curiosity from still being absorbed by his role.
When he got home from class that evening, Charlie changed his email and got another phone, then closed both his previous accounts, which ended the anonymous texts and emails. But that did nothing to stop the imaginary mental scenarios they had provoked from crashing through to the surface almost against his will. The black-hooded men morphed into clowns, naked madly cackling clowns with feathers and feather-dusters and large erections.
Chapter 3: The Grooming Begins
In November, John and Ken called and invited Charlie to a Christmas party at John’s the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. The holiday itself fell on the 22nd that year, the earliest day it could be.
Charlie’d given his number to everyone in the list whom he trusted when he’d transferred from his previous phone. Charlie had avoided going anywhere near the frat house at all costs, but John’s was a couple of blocks away from that.
“There won’t be anyone from the fraternity there, will there?”
“No,” John replied. “We don’t know what happened but had heard you were no longer with them, so we figured it best not to invite any of them.”
* * * * *
“Hey, I’m so glad you came,” John told him when he greeted him at the door. “I see you’ve decided to keep growing your hair out even more; it looks great!”
Charlie’s hair now fell just to his shoulders. “Thanks! I thought I’d give long hair a try.”
The party proved to be the balm Charlie needed at that time. Since all the attendees were older, in their thirties to fifties, he didn’t feel the same sorts of social pressure as he did at uni and among his former fratrnity members. The older adults, men and women on this occasion, also offered more stimulating company intellectually than those his age, and seemed to appreciate his intellect and wit as much as John and Ken.
Though he recognized that he was not their peer, not equal to their level of accomplishments and experience, he still felt comfortable because none of them seemed to mind this.
At the end of the evening, John invited him once again to his ‘gatherings’. “Many of the men here tonight are regular attendees,” he informed Charlie.
“Thanks again,” Charlie expressed, “and now that I’ve met some of them, I look forward to it.”
“And please feel free to drop by any time you’re down here and not in class,” John continued, “since I’ll probably be home. I’ve moved my work office from downtown now, and only go to the firm to meet with clients.”
* * * * *
The following week, Charlie began dropping by frequently in the afternoon on the way home after class or whenever he had a break between classes, as John suggested, and sometimes driving downtown from the ‘burbs just for that purpose and no other.
As he started into the living room proper on his first visit, John told him, “Please make yourself at home when you’re here. Take off your shoes and leave them at the door as soon as you come in. Your socks too; we don’t want you slipping on the hardwood floor.” He seemed rather insistent, bur gently so.
Visibly startled for a brief instant, Charlie stumbled out, “Well, uh, o-okay, yeah, I guess I can do that.” The events of Halloween and the subsequent anonymous messages had made him even more shy about going barefoot in front of others. But then he remembered that John and Ken had already seen his bare feet anyway, with Fire Engine Red toenails, no less. And since they were friends, real friends he assumed, he figured he wasn’t in danger.
He returned to the foyer and submissively complied with the request (out of respect for his hosts, he told himself), curious about why he hadn’t been ‘invited’ (it felt more like directed) to do so on his visits before back in the summer. Then he squatted down and rolled up his cuffs, which he told himself was to keep from tripping, not to better show off his bare feet.
At least my feet are in good shape, he told himself, briefly thankful he gave himself a pedicure monthly, with weekly touch-ups, but then worried about what signals that might send.
* * * * *
Walking back to the kitchen intent on obtaining a wine glass after greeting his two hosts, Charlie didn’t notice the man there standing over the stove.
As he reached up into the cabinet on the opposite side of the room, he heard a voice with an English accent behind him say, “My, what pretty little bare feet you have!”
Charlie nearly dropped the glass on the floor. He hadn’t known anyone was back here.
Turning around with his face red and a bashful smile on his face, “W-what?” Charlie stammered, looking at his feet briefly, then up at the speaker. “Oh, th-thank you, I guess.”
“You must be Charlie,” the man, looking to be in his early forties, said, smiling in a friendly way, “John and Ken have told me so much about you.”
“Yep, that’s me,” said Charlie. “And who might you be?”
“Glad to meet you finally,” the man answered. “I’m George, a psychology professor at the university. John and Ken are like family.”
“Well, then I’m glad to meet you too,” Charlie replied cheerfully, shaking his hand. “I’ll probably be seeing you again; I should be over here lots.”
As he started to headed back into the party, he heard Lindsey call out teasingly behind him, “If those pretty little bare feet of yours are as soft and ticklish as they look, it’s pretty reckless of you to show them off so brazenly and ostentatiously like that.”
A chill ran down Charlie’s spine, freezing him momentarily in place. My God, they wouldn’t really do that, would they?
He was grateful George couldn’t see the mortified expression on his face, and especially not the smile that subsequently spread across his face despite his abject dread. Halloween, after all, was less than a month ago.
* * * * *
Returning to the living room, he felt suddenly very self-conscious about his bare feet, which was heightened by the fact that his hosts and their other guest wore shoes and expensive business attire. Ken apparently had a day off from the hospital where he was a surgeon.
Nevertheless, after that visit Charlie felt compelled, even without any further ‘request’ from his hosts, to obediently remove his shoes at the front door as soon as he entered and go barefoot whenever he was here at John’s house.
Once past his inner misgivings, he secretly delighted in how vulgar and naughty it made him feel. So on all his future visits, instead of his sports sneakers and cotton socks, he switched to wearing white canvas sneakers (women’s) without socks to make his entrances quicker, purchased especially for visits here. And he soon began wear crop flare jeans (also women’s) to eliminate the ‘need’ to roll up his pants legs.
After a few visits during daytime, Charlie started occasionally dropping by in the evening too, until the week of Christmas.
* * * * *
The first couple of times Charlie came to John’s house, he found John or John and Ken alone in the house. On the third visit, though, one evening, he found himself walking barefoot into what would appear to be an impromptu gathering of around twelve men, including the hosts, all in business attire or casual dress suits.
From their initial reactions when he stepped into the living room, Charlie felt for a moment that the men were reacting as if he were a pretty barefoot girl. Feeling that initial surge of (possibly lecherous) attention wash over him had left him briefly feeling like prey . He felt very conspicuous, being by far the youngest and the only one barefoot surrounded by besuited older men.
“Gentlemen, meet Charlie, a friend of mine and Ken’s,” John told the men. “We invited him because we believe he’ll be a desirable acquisition.”
Just as Charlie was about to relax, one of the men exclaimed, “Oh my God, you have a girl’s feet!”
Charlie cringed, but managed to smile, responding, “Yes, according to my podiatriast, I do.” That deflected the matter for the moment, but that cat was now out of the bag.
As the evening passed, Charlie began to relax. Attractive, highly intelligent, and in many ways more mature than people his own age, he enjoyed their company, and they seemed to enjoy his company, mostly because he kept up with the conversations, even though all the others were much older than he, most more than twice his age.
Despite their amiability towards him and their seeming high regard, being barefoot amidst these uniformly well-besuited much older men sometimes made Charlie feel gauche and low-class, as if his bare feet signified shame, public humiliation, or subservient status.
Feeling them leer or stare as he sat participating or ogle intently as he went about his tasks greatly reinforced this impression, especially when they gazed explicitly at his bare feet, which sometimes made him feel like he may as well be stark naked.
Several commented on his “girl’s feet”or appreciated their appearance. Even worse was that they’d quickly nicknamed him ‘Little Miss Pretty Feet’, which Charlie tried to pass off as a joke, giggling and rolling his eyes whenever he heard it.
* * * * *
Starting with that visit, there were usually several other men besides John and Ken in the evenings, almost always including George, all in their forties, always dressed in business or casual dress suits, though usually their ties were loosened. At least this was the case on the nights he showed up. Charlie didn’t come by every night, of course, but he showed up as often as he could.
John and Ken called their get-togethers ‘coffee klatches’, but sometimes it was just a few men hanging out for a little bit waiting for rush hour to be over. These gatherings quickly became Charlie’s main social outlet; he didn’t miss the fraternity at all, though he did begin to sorely miss female company.
For these occasions, everyone would gather around the cocktail ottoman on the different seating furniture, Charlie somehow almost always ending up in the armchair. If there were more guests than seats, chairs would be brought from the dining room. What everyone did most evenings was pretty mundane: watching TV, eating dinner, drinking wine, smoking weed, having intellectual conversations, and occasionally some of the men would shoot billiards or play poker.
Sometimes there was many as twenty men present, and not always the same men; on a few occasions Charlie knew no one other than John, Ken, and George.
When asked to help out by serving and refilling drinks, wine glasses, and food, and taking used stuff back to the kitchen, Charlie was only too glad to help out. It gave him function and made him feel like part of the host team. He also had the chance for more mundane direct one-on-one interaction with the guests. Over the days and weeks , this became slowly but surely became his primary role.
He began to be concerned that invariably going barefoot among so many apparent foot-fetishists might be construed as flirtatiously suggestive, worse as deliberately provocative, or worst of all as an open invitation. Mostly because that was true; the fact they seemed so attracted to him and his bare feet fed his vanity so much that he couldn’t stop himself from playing on, as well as playing into, those desires, despite feeling no carnal attraction in return. Well, none that he was ready to admit to himself.
Knowing that a fetish for bare feet typically coexisted with a fetish for tickling feet, Charlie was also painfully aware at all times of his insanely ticklish bare tooties being dangerously exposed, vulnerable, and in constant peril. Whenever this thought sprang up, George’s admonition repeatedly replayed in his head like the passage of a song just before a scratch on an old vinyl record reprising every time the diamond needle bounced back.
If those pretty little bare feet of yours are as soft and ticklish as they look, it’s pretty reckless of you to show them off so ostentatiously like that.
All of this left Charlie apprehensive and feeling powerless. Always showing off his ‘pretty little soft bare girl’s feet’ anyway in careless disregard of these hazards, however, conversely made him feel secretly bold, daring, adventurous, a little kittenish, and more than a bit mischievous. He told himself it was an act of defiance, rather than one of surrender that thrust him deeper down the rabbit hole.
Charlie became cognizant of himself assuming feminine mannerisms and gestures—playing with his hair, tilting his head when he spoke or listened, swaying his hips when he walked, playing with his hair—almost as if by instinct. He was vaguely aware that his voice became softer and higher pitched, though it remained a deep Southern drawl that he’d inherited from his mom’s family.
But these characteristics only made their appearance here at the gatherings, first beginning to stir and bubble to the surface every time he was invited or planned on his own to drop by.
He became more and more obsessed with keeping his feet as attractive as possible, their soles as soft, smooth, and tender as they could be. He couldn’t control himself, giving himself weekly pedicures with exfoliation and cuticle-trimming, buffing his toenails, lotioning two or three times a day, and doing touch-ups with Pretty Feet & Hands during the week, not satisfied unless they remained soft, smooth, and alluring (he hoped) at all times.
What’s come over me? Charlie kept asking himself.
As time passed, Charlie became ever more flamboyant in displaying his feet, curling and flexing his soles, wiggling his toes, paddling his feet, sitting with one leg crossed over the other at their thighs swinging the upper leg slightly and twirling his foot, sitting balled up with his knees to the back of the chair and his soles facing out, sitting sideways in the chair with his heels resting up on the arm or hanging over the edge, or shifting his legs to present a better view of his soles.
* * * * *
The next evening Charlie arrived for a gathering already in progress, John greeted him at the door, saying, “Don’t leave your shoes in the foyer anymore. With all the guests we’re having lately we need to the foyer uncluttered, so we’ve made other arrangements.”
“Ok, no problem, ” Charlie replied, a little downheartedly. Does this mean I don’t get to…have to, I mean…go barefoot anymore?
When he came in, however, he found a round cushioned barstool stool just inside the entrance to the living room, facing toward the interior (and its occupants). It was short enough, even for him, that he could easily sit on it and put both feet on the floor.
“See?” Ken noted from his spot on the loveseast, “We provided a stool for you. You can take your shoes off there and leave them under the stool.”
“I appreciate that,” he smiled. “Very considerate of you.”
Sitting down, he removed his canvas sneakers, crossing his right leg over his left, bending over to untie his shoe then removing it slowly, but not too slowly, before uncrossing and recrossing his legs, this time left over right, and repeating the procedure. Afterwards, he climbed down, knelt in front of the barstool, then sat on his heels and bent all the way over to place them carefully under the stool, with his soles facing toward the men in the room.
As he did this, conversation among the ten or so present suddenly ceased, and he had to stop himself from looking back, afraid of what he might see.
This performance at the barstool became Charlie’s regular entrance ritual.
When he got to his usual spot in the room that evening, he saw the armchair he usually sat in had been moved back from the ottoman some, with a matching footstool in front of it and a small round wooden table next to it to compensate for the distance from the other.
* * * * *
On his next afternoon visit, the week before Christmas, a shoebox in holiday wrapping paper lay atop the seat of his barstool. Inside were a pair of chambray casual low-cut slip-on boat sneakers with rubber insoles, women’s size 7B.
“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” John, the only one then present, told him. “You can wear them when you come here.”
“Thank you,” Charlie responded.
When Charlie took out the boat sneakers to try them on, he found a 20” long silver rope chain about twenty inches long in the right one.
“That’s for you, too” John told him.
“Thank you again,” Charlie replied.
When he started to put it around his neck, John stopped him.
“No, it’s an anklet, silly. Go ahead and sit down, take off your shoes, and I’ll put it on.”
So Charlie sat down, took off his white canvas sneakers, and John fastened the anklet in place around his right ankle, wrapping it around twice, making Charlie feel uncomfortably passive and submissive.
Afterwards, Charlie tried on his new boat sneakers.
After the other men began to arrive, the new anklet drawing even more attention to his ‘pretty little soft bare girl’s feet’ made Charlie feel ten times more conspicuous than usual.
* * * * *
Later in the evening when John, Ken, and George happened to be back in the kitchen, as he was walking past the Chesterfield couch the one of the men on it tried to get his attention by poking him in the side.
When Charlie jumped and yelped, the guy declared excitedly, “Hey! Little Miss Pretty Feet is ticklish!”
There was a dramatic pause of about half a second as Charlie stood frozen like a deer in the headlights at the man’s gleeful exclamation.
Several of them shouted, almost in unison, “Let’s get him!”
The four people on the couch pulled him down and began tickling his upper body as others joined in. Charlie squirmed and writhed and giggled and laughed, kicking his legs wildly.
“Someone hold down his legs!”
One of the men grabbed his legs in a vise-like grip.
“Now let’s get his girl’s feet!”
“NOOOO! NOT MY F-E-E-E-T!” Charlie cried out before dissolving into hysterical laughter. “PLE-E-E-A-A-S-E! OH GOD, OH GOD, OH GOD!! HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE!”
The last was directed to John and the other two who had returned from the kitchen as soon as they heard the noise. They did nothing to intervene, however, appearing amused as they stood watching the action.
The whole episode lasted less than a minute.
Once they ceased and Charlie stood up, his ticklers looked at him in abashed anticipation of a possible unfavorable reaction. But they relaxed and chuckled when Charlie, not knowing how else to react, bowed three times, then straightened, smiled, and said, “Well, that was fun!
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shit-eating grin from George.
* * * * *
When everyone else left, Charlie remained to help John, Ken, and George clean up, staying after the other two nonresidents also departed. He was sitting on the left side of the rattan loveseat with his bare feet up on the footstool, reading a magazine as he drank a final glass of merlot before heading home.
He thought nothing as he heard John’s footsteps behind him, but just after he set down his wine glass to turn a page, he exploded in laughter, “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”, as John’s fingers dug into his waist and ribs. When the masterfully tickling fingers reached Charlie’s underarms, that latter’s knees reflexively folded toward his torso. John swiftly stepped around the loveseat, scooped Charlie’s ankles under his left arm, and sat down on the right side.
“No! Not my feet!” Charlie pleaded, pulling on his legs but unable to dislodge them from John’s vise-like hold, then dissolving into giggles as John’s fingers scampered lightly across his soft bare soles.
“Teeheehee...that’s not...teeheehee...fair...teeheehee!”
“Oh, come on, Charlie,” John teased, “let me tickle your feet just like this. I missed out on the fun before. And can I say, wow, your feet are really soft!”
“Teeheehee...I guess...teeheehee...it’s...teeheehee...okay...teeheehee!”
“You like it when your feet are tickled like this, don’t you?”
“No...teeheehee...I...teeheehee...hate it...teeheehee!”
“Lying to me now, are you?” John spread out the fingers of his huge hand and began raking them rapidly up and down Charlie’s helpless bare beet. “How about like this?”
“AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! STOP!!! STOP IT!!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“I thought so,” John told him. “I’m gonna keep doing it like this until you give in and admit you like it the other way.”
“HAHAHAHA...NOOOOOO...HAHAHAHAHA...NEVER...HAHAHAHAHA!”
Originally intending just to give Charlie a few quick moments of sadistic tickling then return to the more playful version, John flipped his victim over onto his stomach and pinioned his lower legs between his own thighs with his feet on the armrest after an involuntary spasm caused Charlie to nearly kick him in the face.
“Okay, Charlie,” he gleefully told his victim, “now you’re really gonna get it!”
“Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, pleeeease...AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Charlie exploded as John began raking his fingers lighting fast up and down his pink soles.
After about fifteen seconds, John ceased the hard tickling. Withdrawing two chopsticks from his shirt pocket, he used the smooth round-ended tops to tap all around Charlie’s trapped bare soles. His captive giggled helplessly but delightedly as John continued to tap away lightly.
“Teeheehee-teeheehee-teeheehee-how long- teeheehee-are you-teeheehee-going to-teeheehee-do this-teeheehee-to me-teeheehee?”
“For nearly kicking me in the face?” John asked rhetorically. “I’m going to tickle you until you agree to appear at the next get-together as the sexy little witch you were on Halloween night, complete with all the details.”
“Nooooo...teeheehee...I won’t...teeheehee...do it...teeheehee...teeheehee!”
At this, John began raking the round ends of the chopsticks up and down his captive’s soft pink soles with a heavy hand, at which Charlie stopped giggling and opened his mouth in a silent scream as his breath was taken away by the intensity of the tickling sensations this generated.
For the next several minutes all Charlie could do was squirm and flop helplessly and scream with howling laughter as John tickled merrily away while taunting him, “Imagine, Charlie, you here in your sexy little witch costume showing off your smooth sexy legs and your pretty little soft bare girl’s feet with ‘*****house red’ toenails…”
“NOOOO...HAHAHAHA... FUUUCKING...HAHAHAHA...WAAAAAAAAY!”
“We tell everyone that this is your punishment, but not for what you’re being punished for. Let their imaginations take over.”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“Oh, oh, I’ve got one better! You serve as a tavern wench, a barefoot tavern wench with ‘Tickle Me Pink’ toenails”
“OHMYGODOHMYGOD-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-YOU’RE-HAHAHA-KILLING ME-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
But Charlie still refused to give in.
“We tell everyone to ask what color your new toenail polish is and that your response will be an invitation do just that!”
“NOOOOOOOO-HAHAHAHA-NONONONONONONO-PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!”
After about ten minutes that felt like an eternity to Charlie, John stood up, flipped him back over, and swung his legs over to the right as Charlie’s laughter died down into giggles. As he did so, Charlie’s bare feet brushed his crotch and bulging erection through his dress pants.
Oh my God, was that intentional? Charlie asked himself. No, it had to be an accident. Then his eyes grew wide as the impression of the size of John’s cock made its way from the bottoms of his bare feet to his brain.
“Sorry, Charlie, that was just way too tempting,” John told him as he sat back down at the right end of the Chesterfield couch, “after not getting in on the action earlier tonight. Another glass of merlot?”
On the way home after that second glass, Charlie was mesmerized by the memory of that ‘accidental’ brush, and that night, after he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of being forced to serve the men at one of the gatherings as a ‘barefoot tavern wench’, waking up to find his cock stiffer than it had ever been before.
Chapter 4: The Trap Is Set
When Charlie dropped by the next afternoon and approached the place of his usual seat, the armchair and footstool, he discovered instead a black faux-leather Julia chaise lounger that could convert into a futon.
“Go ahead and try it out, Charlie,” John, sitting on the Brookshire sofa, told him after sending a quick text to someone, told him. “I think you’ll like it.”
A couple of minutes later, Charlie, sitting in the lounger with his ankles crossed (right over left so he could admire his anklet) and his hands behind his head watching the TV (in the corner between the Chesterfield couch and the Brookshire sofa), heard the back door open, then greeted George and Ken, trailing a few paces behind, who must’ve come through the backyards from Ken’s place. Oddly, they seemed to be moving with purpose.
George walked around the loveseat then between the Chesterfield couch and the ottoman as if headed to the Brookshire sofa. But he didn’t stop there. He kept coming around, arriving at the foot of the lounger at on one side just as Ken reached the opposite corner while John had moved behind the lounger.
Suddenly, Charlie’s danger signals went off, but it was too late. John grabbed his wrists as the other two each grabbed an ankle and pulled down, so that Charlie’s bare feet hung over the foot of the lounger. Then John dropped the backrest down so that the chaise lounger became a futon, making Charlie supine.
“Hey!” Charlie called out, startled, “What are y’all doing?”
“Sorry, Charlie,” John explained as Ken and George secured velcro-fastened cuffs around his ankles and tied their tethers to the legs at the foot of the lounger, “After missing out last night then hearing what happened later, Ken and George felt they deserved a turn too.”
“What is this, a contest?” inquired Charlie as Ken and George easily did the same to his wrists and they’d done to his ankles, forearms over the edge, bent at the elbow, despite his weak attempt to struggle free. “Are y’all keeping score or something?”
“Just be glad we’re not doing this at the get-together tonight,” Ken declared as he and George moved back to the foot of the now-futon.
“LET ME GO!” Charlie shouted defiantly, before a bout of giggling, without anyone having touched him, ruined the effect he’d intended.
“Not a chance,” replied George. “Not after you nearly kicked John in the face last night.”
“We’ll give you a choice,” Ken suggested. “We can do this now, or later tonight when everyone is here and afterwards leave you helpless like this in front of all the others.”
Struck mute with wide eyes, Charlie vigorously shook his head.
“Be specific, Charlie,” John instructed. “What do you want? Answer now, or we’ll take it to mean you want us to wait until tonight.”
“I want...,” Charlie started, “I want you to...,” pausing again, not believing he was having to actually ask for this. “I want you to tie me down and tickle my bare feet right now.”
As he and Ken sat down on the ottoman before his captive tootsies, Charlie was already squirming even though neither had touched his feet yet.
“Ten minutes, guys,” announced John, still at the head of the futon.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIIIIIIIT...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” Charlie exploded as the two men at his feet began tickling full-force, his entire body going rigid and lifting off the futon, then writhing in ticklish misery as he screamed and guffawed with laughter.
After about half-a-minute, they reduced the intensity of their tickling to which Charlie merely squirmed wildy with helpless bubbling laughter and hysterical giggling.
“Ok, I’ve...teeheehee...had enough... hahahahahahaha... pleeeeeaaase... teeheeheehahaha!”
Ken and George occasionally delivered short bursts of hard sadistic tickling to his bare feet, at which John would reach down tickling his underarms, ribs, sides, and stomach, sending Charlie into panicked begging and pleading for mercy until the softer “gentler” tickling resumed. This pattern lasted for five minutes.
At the five minute mark, all three men launched into a bout of hard sadistic tickling that didn’t change back after a short burst. Initially, John had Charlie’s upper body to himself and left Charlie’s flailing feet and wriggling toes to Ken and George as he’d already had his turn the night before.
“HAHAHAHA-WHY-HAHAHA-ARE YOU-HAHAHA-DOING THIS-HAHAHA-TO ME-HAHAHAHA!!! Charlie wailed when he realized there wasn’t going to be a switchback to the softer playful tickling. No one answered.
Ken moved to his right so that he and John could tickle torture his upper body from both sides, leaving the tickle torture of his bare feet in George’s more than capable hands. He and George switched back and forth as Charlie squirmed and twisted and thrashed around wildly, screaming and laughing and begging and pleading. Eerily, the three men said nothing as they tormented their poor helpless ticklish victim without mercy.
But, true to John’s word, when the timer on his watch beeped, all tickling ceased immediately.
As Charlie lay unmoving trying to recover, still in his bonds, John told the other two, “C’mon, let’s get back to the kitchen to get everything ready. Our guests should all begin arriving in about thirty minutes.”
When the three men turned and began to walk away, Charlie became quite alarmed. “Hey! You can’t just leave me like this!”
The men kept walking away.
“Untie me! Let me go! Please!” Charlie was horrified at the thought of all those men who’d tickled him the night before finding him so helpless like this. “Don’t do this to me!”
The three men stopped and half-turned. “We should gag him,” Ken suggested.
“And blindfold him too,” George added.
“Please don’t leave me like this!” Charlie pleaded. “I’ll do anything! ANYTHING!”
“Anything?” John asked with a smirk. “That certainly covers a lot of ground. But for now, I know just the thing. I’ll be back in a moment.”
A couple of minutes later, Charlie heard John reenter the front room, then Ken and George begin snickering. Since they were standing in his view, he couldn’t see what caused their mirth at first. Then they parted to let John pass, and he groaned.
On the coat hanger John held in one hand was a renaissance faire tavern wench costume, sans shoes, of course. In the other hand was a bottle of Tickle Me Pink nail polish.
“What’ll it be, Charlie?” he offered. “Stay like that, bound, gagged, and blindfolded and listen as we regale our guests with elaborate details of what we did last night and just now before we turn them loose, or wear these tonight? Your choice.”
“Ok, fine,” Charlie surrendered indignantly. “I give in.”
“Better get cracking, then,” John suggested, “if you want to do a good job on your toenails. You can use the bathroom upstairs; I laid out a pair of toe separators on the counter there.”
As Charlie headed up the stairs, John called out, “When you come back down, bring all your stuff with you.”
The tavern wench costume included an off-the-shoulders white peasant blouse whose sleeves stopped a couple of inches below his elbows with elastic ends, a brown skirt that came down about four inches above his ankles, a strapless black bodice, and a pair of white cotton string bikini panties. There were also a mobcap (bonnet) and a white apron.
Since the nail polish was quick-drying, Charlie managed to finish in time, and while not salon-quality, it looked pretty decent.
When he came back down, the three men applauded and cheered and whistled. Once he came into the living room, George took his things back to the study.
“What’ll we say when everyone starts getting here?” Charlie asked John, which by then would be in about five minutes.
“Hmmm...,” John thought. “We’ll say this is your penalty for losing a bet over a game. They’ll love that, and won’t ask any probing questions.”
“Okay,” replied Charlie. “At least it sounds plausible.”
John pulled out his smart phone. “Do you remember that first photo we took Halloween night? Assume that position again.”
Charlie complied, reluctantly so without the aid of alcohol.
“Now, hold this sign—no, don’t read it yet—and think of how happy and relieved you are to be in this position rather tied, gagged, and blindfolded in the chaise lounger, then put that into your best smile.”
Estatic relief spread across Charlie’s face, brightening his smile and face, and John took a picture.
Charlie looked at the sign. It read, “This is my punishment for being a very naughty little girl.”
When Charlie started to protest, John held up his hand. “Save the questions until we’ve finished.”
Charlie frowned, but complied.
“Now, just a couple more, for which you need to sit on the chaise lounger.”
After he did so, Ken and George placed two throw pillows stacked one on top of the other under Charlie’s lower legs, with his bare feet hanging over the edge. Ken handed him another piece of poster board.
“Now, point your toes straight up and show us those pretty little bare soles.”
When John’d taken the shot, Charlie read the second poster. “BEWARE: My pretty little bare girl’s feet are exceptionally soft and unbearably ticklish!”
Ken handed him another poster board, side with writing again facing away, and John took another picture.
Charlie read the third poster. “There are witnesses here that can testify to the truth of the statement above.”
“Okay, Charlie,” John instructed, “curl your toes and point them forward so we can see your painted toenails.”
Ken placed a third poster board in his hands.
After he’d taken that shot and told Charlie it was the last one, Charlie read the fourth sign. “Ask the name of my toenail polish and take the answer as an invitation.”
A chill ran down his spine.
“Are we through now?” Charlie demanded. “What the hell?”
“Relax, Charlie,” John suggested upon seeing the look on Charlie’s face, “those were just for insurance and for the psychological effect they’ll having on you, knowing that I can send them out anytime this evening if you happen to resist.”
“Wh-what do you mean, re-resist?”
“Failing to fulfill requests, refusing instructions, trying to escape, being absent from any gathering without prior permission, any of those,” John informed him, “which might result in those pictures from last week going out in a mass text on the university system, or to the members of your former fraternity, or the parishoners at your church, or all of the above.”
Charlie looked as if he were trapped and knew it.
John laughed. “Relax, Charlie, this is just roleplay. It’s only a game, after all, not a matter of life and death.”
To the cat, maybe, thought Charlie, but not to the mouse.
Still, Charlie complied with the instructions and found he loved the new color, which was on the border between bright red and dark pink and could appear either depending on the physical context and light. It blended with his pale skin much better than the other.
I just hope no one asks me what color it is, he mused.
“What if I decide to just go get my clothes, change, and leave?”
“Do you know the combination to my office safe? That’s where George just locked them up.”
* * * * *
John’s pretense about his losing a bet helped Charlie feel a little bit less uneasy appearing as a ‘barefoot tavern wench’ since the men responded with laughter, even if some of it seemed more than a little bit randy. In addition to being in such a suggestively feminine costume, his ‘Tickle Me Pink’ toenails were a beacon drawing attention to his bare feet, still tingling and quivering fresh from that afternoon’s ticklish assault.
It was abundantly clear that seeing him in this new light incited all the men present to view him with different eyes. Charlie found himself responding paradoxically to feeling so sexually objectified as a simulated female by intensifying his feminine gestures and mannerisms, even openly flirting and teasing with his bare feet even more, all of which could’ve been called foolhardy had he had any control over it.
Unfortunately for Charlie’s new sources of anxiety, this get-together lasted several hours. All the regular attendees and several other men had shown up; in fact, other than the Christmas party, this was the largest gathering Charlie had been too here.
Though it quickly became clear that by now all the men had gotten word of his ticklish weakness, as the evening worn on Charlie’s apprehension nonetheless faded, then it disappeared entirely as he not only grew accustomed to the new state of affairs but seemed to thrive on it.
Every once in a while someone would poke his sides or ribs or scamper their fingers down his back to see him jump. More often, if he had his head turned at the moment and was sitting in the chaise lounger with his feet out or sideways in it with his knees to the back of the chaise lounger and his feet sticking out with soles accessible, they might deliver a brief surprise tickle to the soles of his bare feet. One might almost suspect Charlie was looking away on purpose.
At one point, the men wheedled ‘barefoot tavern wench’ Charlie into climbing onto the cocktail ottoman and modeling for them. After Charlie went through a few positions to much hearty encouragement from the spectators, John used his phone to turn on the stereo and an old early 1980s song Charlie knew, “Everybody Wants You”, came blaring from the speakers.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” he giggled sheepishly.
Nonetheless, he responded to the unspoken but clear suggestion by beginning to dance, wishing momentarily that he knew something other than dirty dancing, belly-dancing, and what he’d learned from strip-tease videos on Pornhub. The spectators, though, didn’t seem to mind even the tiniest bit. For a brief instant, he wished he had his belly-dancing outfit there; the secret female costume he wore to practice at home, not the male costume he wore to classes.
Charlie quickly dismissed the idea. Dancing for these men as a barefoot taven wench was bad enough; there was no way in hell he wanted them to see him in that.
“How about a round of applause for our Little Miss Pretty Feet?” George called. The response was applause, cheering, and quite a bit of whistling.
While this was going on John had pulled out his phone and started scrolling through photos. As the applause died out, notifications pinged the phones of every man in the room. Every man in the room turned almost in unison toward Charlie, grinning, then looked down at their phones once more when they pinged again.
“Oh, fuck me,” sighed Charlie, aloud but to himself. He flipped John off as every man in the room turned his way with hungry expressions.
A third ping and the men’s attention towards each other, searching faces until John, Ken, and George raised their hands over their heads pointing down towards themselves.
A fourth ping and they all looked at Charlie’s bare feet on the ottoman then at him and shouted in unison, “WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR TOENAILS PAINTED, CHARLIE?”
All Charlie could do was laugh at the absurdity of it as the all the men looked toward The Troika (which John, Ken, and George seemed to have become) for direction on what to do now. The three men had by then made their way to the ottoman, surrounding Charlie.
* * * * *
“Ok, guys, this is how it’s going to go,” announced John, as Charlie’s bare feet began to tingle and Ken and George went to retrieve the bondage equipment from earlier that afternoon. “I’ve been counting heads, and there are twenty-one of us present tonight…”
A few short minutes later, Charlie was bound to the recliner again, wrists together and arms overhead, ankles together with bare feet hanging over the edge. While John presided, Ken called out, “First up”.
The eighteen non-Troika men present had drawn numbered slips from Charlie’s bonnet to determine place in the tickle train. The Troika would take part, with John being the caboose.
The locomotive of the train came forward and sat on the stool placed before Charlie’s captive bare feet. “What color are your toenails painted, Charlie?” the man asked.
Once John had laid out the guidelines for this, Charlie had gone from feeling betrayed and scared shitless to amusement, and in answer to the question, he tittered out, “Tickle Me Pink!”
“Ten seconds,” George reminded him before pushing start on his phone’s timer. Immediately the man’s ten fingers began scampering up, down, and across the soles of Charlie’s bound bare feet.
Charlie burst out giggling. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, teeheehee, teeheehee, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, teeheehee.”
The same sequence took place for the next man. Besides a time limit of ten seconds per man, the guidelines also restricted the tickling to playful. At ten seconds by twenty-one playful ticklers, that came to just three and a half minutes total, not too bad at all, except for the embarrassment. As for that, Charlie was already dressed as a barefoot tavern wench.
After the tickling was over and Charlie released, he mounted the ottoman for more applause. The men also cajoled and prodded him quite persistently about being a barefoot tavern wench at evening get–togethers from now on.
Finally, George spoke up in response to their demands, “I so move”.
“And I second,” Ken replied.
“Then I call the vote,” John stated firmly, smiling though. “What say you, gentlemen; shall our Little Miss Pretty Feet serve at our get-togethers as a barefoot tavern wench once we resume in January?”
The response was loud and unanimous. “That makes it official, then,” John smiled lasciviously, “not that the outcome was ever in doubt.”
John did not ask for Charlie’s agreement, consent, or even capitulation, the submissive compliance of the subject, whether reluctant or enthusiastic, being casually taken for granted.
Which Charlie, standing prominently on the ottoman, affirmed by shrugging his shoulders, raising his hands palms outward, and nodding with a smile, which brought more applause.
The get-together broke up shortly thereafter. Before Charlie left, John proposed that since Charlie’s appearance as a barefoot tavern wench was going to be a regular thing now he should start shaving his entire body, except for the hair on his head.
Surprised that Charlie so easily agreed (being unaware Charlie had been doing so since preparing for Halloween), John seemed quite pleased, and thus inspired, pushed further.
“In addition,” he continued, “you should supplement the outfit with proper make-up. Something tasteful.”
Charlie nodded amiably. “Okay, I can do that.”
Appreciative that Charlie was being so pliable, John added, “And start coming by during the day every day then too, during breaks, if you have them and after classes.”
Chapter 5: Changes Of View
The thought of serving the men at get-togethers resuming in January with the stipulation he do so as a barefoot tavern wench all the time, rather than as a one-time stunt, both excited and disturbed Charlie as much as did the very fact it was all but compulsory.
And the thought of what just showing up at all would say to them about him after what happened last time.
I can’t believe I let them to that to me! Charlie berated himself one minute.
The next minute he wondered, But when and how will I get to let them do that to me again?
A minute after that would be, What’ll they think of me serving them as a barefoot tavern wench after last time?
Another minute later, I wonder if John might get me a shorter skirt.
Simply put, the question of whether or not Charlie would reappear to serve the men attending the gatherings at John’s house as a barefoot tavern wench was nonexistent, because for there to even be a question, there has to be at least a preon of doubt.
* * * * *
As usual, Charlie left his car on campus and walked the half mile from his parking spot on campus to John’s house in the Fort Timber neighborhood, which he’d known all along would be the case. He walked because street parking was limited to residents and parking at John’s was very limited.
It was mid-afternoon, and Charlie thought he’d early and be there as the men arrived for the get-together. But what he found when he sat on his stool to perform his shoe removal ritual was several men already in the living room. As he greeted the men greeting him, he was overwhelmed with feelings of…well, Charlie didn’t know what the fuck to call it, he was just happy to be back here.
He took his leave to head upstairs to the guest room, John excused himself and followed Charlie. Just as the latter was about to open the door to the guest bedroom, John caught his elbow.
“I know you’re supposed be a barefoot tavern wench this evening, but there’s been a change of plans that I like you’ll enjoy.” He opened the door for Charlie to walk through. The latter stopped dead in his tracks with his mouth open when he saw what was laid out on the bed for him.
After ten seconds, Charlie asked John, “Do you have a reusable shopping bag down in the kitchen?”
“Yes, of course, Charlie, several actually. I drive a Prius, after all.”
“I’m gonna need one.”
“For what?”
“Just please get it.”
While John was gone, Charlie mused that this outfit was a not-so-subtle way for John to check if he were shaving his body hair as instructed.
In about five minutes, John was back. Charlie took the shopping bag and insisted to John, “Wait outside the door while I change.”
A couple of minutes later, Charlie cracked the door about a foot and thrust the now-filled shopping bag at John. “Here’s my clothes, wallet, and phone; get my shoes on the way to your study and add them, then lock it all in your safe, because otherwise, unless I have no option to leave, there’s no fucking way on this Earth I’m coming down among those men in this outfit. It’ll take me five minutes of so to do my make-up, then I’ll be down.”
“Okay,” John chuckled, “if you insist.”
“I know exactly whose character on which show you’re trying to bring to mind, but you can damn well forget about me trying to put my hair in fucking pigtails.”
Looking at himself in the full-length mirror, he’d got butterflies thinking about other men seeing him like this. Then he changed his mental point of view; instead of looking at a reflection of himself, he made himself see the “girl” in the mirror as another person. Charlie felt a bulge grow in his hot pants and, even more embarrassingly, watched his enlarged nipples grow stiff and their shape become clearly visible.
Yeah, I’m a hottie, all right, Charlie admitted to himself more out of both reluctant acceptance of his situation and vanity. If I were one of the men, I’d stare at me too.
Seven minutes later, the busy conversation in the living room broke into silence as a pair of slender but smooth, shapely ivory skin-skinned legs began descending the stairs from the second floor.
As Charlie reached the ground level and began walking into the living room wearing low-cut blue denim hot pants and a fuschia short-sleeved off-the-shoulders peasant crop top, John announced to the group, “Gentlemen, welcome Cherry Ann.”
When some of them looked at him quizzically, he explained, “Mary Ann with red hair. Get it?” The men laughed and nodded, then gave Cherry Ann a standing ovation. John went on to decree that this is how the former Charlie would be known here from now on, and that her pronouns here were she and her.
* * * * *
As Cherry Anne went about her tasks that evening, she felt the men staring at her and her bare feet and legs more frequently and more brazenly than in the past. Now when she turned or looked up to see, she’d discover those doing the ogling no longer showing the smallest hint of reticence about their predatory gaze or lascivious smiles. Instead, they would look her directly in the eyes momentarily with almost a challenge, a sense of ownership.
Sporadic playful tickling became a consistent feature of get-togethers, at least for the first couple of weeks. Cherry Ann invariably blushed, but since it always seemed more playful than anything else, it never disturbed her too much, not even the two or three times when there was a brief gang-tickling.
After several nights this faded away, though she was still greeted with “Tickle, tickle, tickle!” or “Kootchie, kootchie, koo!”, and Cherry Ann was astonished to find she sort of missed it. Frustrated at this, she began randomly actually asking the men to tickle her bare feet, with the tacit agreement it would be under the same terms as the last pre-Christmas gathering (light-tickling for 10 seconds).
While it was clearly obvious The Troika and the other men enjoyed watching her dressed as Mary/Cherry Ann, Cherry Ann was startled to discover how much she herself enjoying being watched like that.
Though this outfit, with variations of top (such as a short-sleeved plaid crop top), quickly became Cherry Ann’s signature attire no matter the occasion (much like her namesake), over the next several weeks she sometimes wore a blue gingham minidress, a seifuku (Japanese schoolgirl uniform), a red minidress with white polka dots, on a couple of occasions, an ao dai (Vietnamese version of a Mandarin dress) sans the pants, and, of course, the tavern wench costume.
On Sunday afternoons, Cherry Ann would serve brunch to The Troika and a few other men, who altered every week, as a barefoot French maid. At these semi-formal affairs, there were no “shenanigans”, just brief glances, and only polite conversation with Cherry Ann.
The escalated scrutiny now that she was Cherry Ann was both scary and exciting at the same time, and to Cherry Ann it became a drug to which she was addicted. She pretended not to be affected by the increase in lewd attention, trying to appear oblivious to its new brazenness, but the blush and shy smile on her face gave her away.
Though she quickly become accustomed to feeling like a sheep among hungry wolves, she was afraid to become comfortable with it lest she lose control and revel in it. By the time that occurred to Cherry Ann, however, the ship was long gone from Glasgow harbor and halfway around the Horn of Africa on the way to India.
What intensified Cherry Lynn’s enthusiasm and eagerness was the fact that The Troika now compelled her to relinquish Charlie’s street clothes to be locked in John’s safe for the duration of her stay once she’d changed into whatever outfit they’d laid out for her, leaving her, in effect, a “captive” and completely at their mercy. The fact that Charlie himself unwittingly instigated this as standard operating procedure made it even more thrilling and delicious as well as ignomious.
Chapter 6: Turning Point
After several weeks, John put on catered but simple dinner for the seven men who most often spent time at John’s house. The food was delivered, but the only person serving it was Cherry Ann. Only a semi-formal affair, there were an apertif, a small appetizer, an entrée, a main course, salad after dinner, and a small cheesecake about an inch square for desert, followed by coffee and/or a digestif.
Cherry Ann was glad John owned a very large dishwasher. He had two in fact; one for every day use and one for occasions such as these.
Once satisfied that Cherry Ann had served after dinner drinks adequately, John held up his hand and the others all quieted.
“Now that everyone is fed and satisified and relaxing with their drink of choice, Cherry Ann will now perform a dance for us in a new costume that just arrived this afternoon.”
Turning to Cherry Ann, he instructed, “Follow me, please”.
They went upstairs to the guest bedroom. A clothing box lay on the bed.
Cherry Ann opened it and saw the contents, immediately recognizing its famous design. “Hell, no. There’s no fucking way I’m dancing in front of anyone wearing that.”
“Okay then, Little Miss Pretty Feet,” John said as he pulled out his smart phone and started scrolling through photos.
“Hey, wait, wait!” exclaimed Cherry Ann as she remembered what he’s said about ‘insurance’. “I give. I’ll do it. This just threw me off for a little bit, I’m sorry. Please.”
“I’ll step out to let you change,” John said. “I’ll be right outside the door, so let me know when you’re finished.”
Never in a million years had Cherry Ann thought she’d appear before other people dressed in anything like this. For in the box was a replica of the iconic Slave Leia metal bikini costume.
Identical to the original in overall design, it differed in that the ‘metal’ (rubber-coated wire) was silver rather than gold and the top and bottom were both black. In addition, the breech cloths were narrower, at about eight inches wide, and shorter, stopping a couple of inches above his ankles. The cups of the top were also much smaller.
Cherry Ann was not the least bit surprised that this costume fit her so well, since John had made sure to get all Cherry Ann’s physical measurements weeks ago.
“Ok, I’m ready,” Cherry Ann called, meaning her outfits were changed, not that hse was in any way emotionally prepared to be seen like this.
“You’ll no doubt do ample justice to that outfit,” John remarked as he appraised Cherry Ann’s new guise. “I did see moves from a belly-dancing class in your earlier performance, right?”
Cherry Ann was too nervous to do anything but nod.
“Wait in the doorway until I call you,” John told him. He then went downstairs, said something to the men, then Cherry Ann heard furniture being moved. When sounds stopped, he heard John call his name.
Cherry Ann was unprepared for the outbursts of cheering, remarks both rude and complimentary, and clapping and stomping of feet that broke out as soon as he appeared at the top of the stairs.
Arriving in the living room, he noticed immediately that the ottoman in the middle had been removed, leaving a sizable open space.
“Your stage, Little Miss Pretty Feet,” John told him, gesturing with his open hand to the center of the room.
Cherry Ann dropped the ankle-length silk robe John’d had her wear over her outfit, kicked it into a corner with a sexy sweep of her leg, and adopted a beginning pose in the center of the room, with her left heel against the side of her right ankle and her fingertips touching with her palms facing inward.
The opening chords of a song Cherry Ann knew quite well, Tito & Tarantula’s “After Dark”, sounded from the hidden speakers, and she smiled, closing her eyes. She started by planting her left foot down 12 inches from her right and rotating her hands palms outward, then began sensuously rotating her hips and undulating her stomach as she swayed to the rhythm.
As she moved, Cherry Ann could feel the eyes of all seven men riveted to her performance. Opening her eyes, she began slowly revolving in place, looking each of the watching men directly in the eyes as she did.
Closing her eyes again, she gyrated his way down to the ground then bent over backwards till her head touched the floor, waving her arms. Bending forward until her forehead touched the floor, she raised his head and opened her eyes to gaze directly at John. Gyrating upward now, she took a long stride toward toward John’s seat and proceeded to dance as if for him and him alone.
Rather than going around the room chair by chair, Cherry Ann turned around and danced her way toward the man almost directly across the room, continuing this criss-crossing of the floor until each man had had his own personal time.
The performance ended with Cherry Ann in the center of the room once more, prostrate on the floor with her arms out, hands palms down with fingers pointing directly toward John as the last notes of the song played. When the music finished, you could’ve heard a pin drop.
John began a slow clap, which the other men quickly picked up, with the applause rapidly increasing tempo and volume as Cherry Ann sat up, then stood and bowed to each member of his audience as the applause became a standing ovation.
The performance was no Santanico Pandemonium/Salma Hayek, but it had still been very good.
* * * * *
The next weekend, the one before Spring Break began, John and Ken held a big dinner party, the size of the early Christmas party in November and with many of the same people. All the regulars attended, and it was a much larger crowd than usual, especially because there were a number of women present, wives and girlfriends, as had been the case at Christmas. Even George had brought his wife.
The older adults had dressed in suits and semi-formal dresses. Cherry Ann had been instructed to once again wear the French maid outfit as he had done at the most recent coffee klatch.
Five girls from the university, similar to her in age, height, and androgynous body-type were also serving. Like her, all the girls were barefoot in French maid costumes. Each of them had pretty feet, he noted, wore an anklet identical to hers on her own right ankle, and had Tickle Me Pink polish on her toenails. Three of the girls she didn’t know before, but she was surprised and pleased to see the other two, her fellow Halloween victims Darly and June. When they first saw each other, they exchanged a look of shared horror, but then they were off to their tasks.
All of them were all too busy for the casual conversation where she could’ve inquired about that, so Cherry Ann waited to ask about it when the three former make-believe witch-sluts got together post-party.
* * * * *
After the party, the helpers did all the clean up. Tonight had been the first time Charlie had seen either Darly or June since Halloween, and he was dying to talk with them. Back in their regular street clothes, the trio went to a coffee shop near the campus and sat in a corner booth away from the rest of the customers.
“Well,” started Charlie, “here we are, together again.”
“Under much better circumstances,” continued Darly.
“Yeah, let’s NEVER do THAT again!” finished June, looking at Darly out of the corner of her eye surreptitiously as Darly did the same back.
“Did you two get any, um, anonymous messages after that night?” Charlie asked. “Maybe with video from that night?”
He learned that, in fact, they had gotten similar threatening messages about not talking, but they denied there’d been any more following. And, like him, they had gotten texts the morning after Halloween announcing they’d been black-balled from their respective groups.
“Do y’all miss it?” Charlie asked, referring to Greek life.
“After what they did to us?” Darly inquired dubiously. “Hell, no!”
“I think I can say for both us,” June interjected, “that getting blackballed was the best thing that every happened to us.”
“That night was soooo humiliating, but...,” Darly started, “I kind of...well, liked it too.”
“Same here,” added June, “on both counts. Well, sort of. I mean, when the girls tickled us they were pretty vicious about it, but the guys were more playful and that...made me sort of horny,” she finished, blushing.
“And how about you, Charlie?” Darly asked, with her right eyebrow arched.
Feeling safe around the two with whom he’d shared the experience, Charlie admitted that he’d secretly enjoyed ‘every single torturous minute’ and rationalized that by confiding in them about how he’d coped with the humiliation by fully sinking into his role and embracing it, not stopping to consider how much of a revelation that in itself might be or how that salacious tidbit in the wrong hands could be exploited against him.
“So,” Charlie asked, “why were y’all there helping out tonight?”
“We’re, um, employees, you could say,” June answered, with a slightly mischievous grin, “of, well, let’s call it a temp agency.”
Darly rolled her eyes. “It’s an escort service, Charlie, catering mostly to professional and otherwise affluent men.”
“This particular outcall was a lot different than we’re used to,” said June, “more money too.”
“Yeah,” Darly added. “All we had to do was serve food and drinks wearing these maid outfits that are only a little revealing.”
“So, how would I get this gig?” questioned Charlie.
“Well, that could be a problem,” June apologized. “All of us girls are university coeds. It’s part of the brand.”
“But for you, they just might make an exception,” Darly teased playfully. “You do make a very sexy girl, with cute little feet and pretty legs. Nice ass, too, by the way.”
“No doubt about it whatsoever,” June added, playing along. “And since you’re already helping out at the gatherings of one of their cells, as we’ve heard, which is how we got started, maybe it really could happen. Then we could be The Three Amigas.”
Darly looked at Charlie appraisingly. “Maybe,” she mused with a strange smile, more pensive than playful, nodding her head. “Yeah, I can see it. I think you’d be a great catch for them, and we’d love to have you with us.”
“I think you’d love it,” added her companion. “It’s very stimulating, and tittilating.” June winked at Darly. “But as much as I enjoy it, I’ve gotta admit that sometimes the job is a real pain-in-the-ass,” she added, giggling as she looked at Darly, who looked back.
“Yeah,” added Darly, also giggling, “and that’s the best part!”
Charlie just shook his head as they dissolved into laughter. He was mystified.
That night Charlie lay awake many hours pondering what he’d learned from his own insights and what Darly and June confided at the coffee shop.
At least the raging erection he’d gotten just from the sounds of their voices had told him, no, he hadn’t gone completely gay and was still bi.
[End Part 1]
Part 2: http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...ning-Up-of-Cherry-Ann-(MMMt-Mx36t-FFt)-Part-2
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