Dr. Bill Kobb
Level of Cherry Feather
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2003
- Messages
- 10,229
- Points
- 48
(Warning: The following fictional story features elements which many readers may consider too extreme for their own personal tickling tastes. If you feel that you might be at all offended by fictional portrayals of coercion, bondage, and humiliation, please read no further)
[In the dream, you’re outside, sunning on a lawn chair with your dorm mate, Jasmine. The two of you are laughing about all the horn-dog college boys, while a butterfly flits around your heads. It hovers next to your face, tiny wings grazing the tip of your nose. You try to brush it away, but it alights, and continues tickling your cheek and down your neck. When it reaches your ear, you let out a little squeal…]
Your eyes fly open, but the butterfly-tickles don’t end like they should.
“Morning sunshine!” It’s your older brother-in-law, Marcus. “Heard you were home from college, Squirt.”(God, how you always hated that nickname). “Marcus! Let me the fuck up NOW, dammit!” you try in the sternest voice you can muster. You attempt to squirm your way out from under him on the bed, and it’s only then that you realize he doesn’t have you pinioned under him like he used to do when you were kids. He laughs that annoying, low, 'Huhuhunh'-chuckle he used to always make when he was about to torment you, and with mounting horror, you discover that, while you were sleeping, he has quietly-but-securely bound you in a taut spread-eagle to your old four-poster bed!
Now the panic sets-in, and you begin to fight the tight restraints, as your heart begins pounding wildly in your chest, “The HELL is this, asshole?!?” you shout. He is leering down at your bosom, heaving under the sheer pink-and-white-polka dot camisole-top. With increasing dread, you see your dream-butterfly flit into view. It’s ‘Mr. Feather’ (his stupid pet-name). You’d thought you would never see that long, stiff, black-&-white imitation eagle-feather again. It was a leftover from one of Mom’s craft projects, but in the hands of your older brother, it became an instrument of torture throughout your youth.
“Huhuhunh”, Marcus grins as he again ply’s the tip of the soft bristles lightly across your forehead and bridge of your nose, sending a wave of goose bumps cascading down your entire body as you try to jerk your head away. “Sweet! I see you’re still as ticklish as ever, Squirt! I heard you were home, and Mom and Dad will be back soon, provided the car doesn’t give them any trouble”, he winks ominously. “In the meantime, I thought you and I could play some tickle-games again, like we used to when we were kids, Huhuhunh! You’re a big girl now, though, so I thought alittle help from Dad’s neckties was in order”, he says referring to the bonds that keep you secured spread and helpless to move below while he hovers over you.
“Marcus, you bastard”, you begin, only to erupt in a fit of giggles as the feather ever so slowly glides down to your neck and collar-area. You let out a high pitched shriek and thrash your head back-and-forth madly, it being the only movement available to you. “Jeez, Squirt! You trying to shatter my eardrums or somethin’?” he laughs. You try a different tact, “Look, Marcus, we’re not kids anymore, and this isn’t funny, you asshole!” “Tsk, tsk. Doesn’t sound like college has helped your vocabulary any, Squirt, Huhuhunh”, Marcus grins, as he sets the feather aside. “I MEAN it, Marcus!” and whatever you are about to say next is suddenly frozen in your throat as he whips out a pink ball, like a dog-toy, only with a cord running through the middle.
Eyes wide, it dawns on you what he intends to do, “Marcus…” you begin, the words failing you. “Shhh, shhh, now, Squirt”, he says, as he attempts to fit the large ball into your tightly clamped-shut mouth. “No sense in fighting it, kiddo”, says Marcus, as he squeezes your nostrils shut with his left hand. You hold out as long as you can, but the air’s gotta come. As soon as you open your mouth to breath in, he is forcibly wedging the big rubber ball into it. Your scream is reduced to a muffled murmur, and already, he is tying the lace tightly behind your neck. “There, huhuhuh.”, he says, sitting back, still straddling your hips with his hands on his knees. You jaw is already aching as you try in vain to clamp down on the big rubber ball.
You close your teary eyes to try to blot out the horror of Marcus’s terrible leer as he, grinning, begins to ever-so-gently roll your flimsy camisole up, exposing your breasts to the cool of the room. Your nipples instantly stand at attention, as he continues to roll your cami completely out of the way, leaving you topless and shuddering, your pajama pants still affording some tiny measure of dignity. “Daayaamn, Squirt! You HAVE grown up!” he laughs. “It’s gonna be so much fun watching those puppies jiggle while Mr. Feather brings the giggles!”. Mortified at your predicament, you begin to cry behind the big pink gag, letting out little choked sobs that almost pass for laughter. “There, see! You’re already getting into the spirit! Huhuhunh!”.
Grinning with sheer evil intent, he plies Mr. Feather ever so slowly doooown and back uuuuup along one underarm, acrooooss your collar, and then doooown and uuuuup across the other, rhythmically, and despite your frantic best efforts, you can only wriggle in a ticklish sort of stasis, breathing in short gasps behind the mouth-filling gag. He continues this excruciatingly slow torment as he explains, “I can’t tell you how much I missed our fun back in the day, kiddo. It’s been afew years now, but I wanna find out if you’re still the same ticklish lil’ twerp you used to be.” You punctuate this twisted admission by falling into a full fledged crying jag behind the ball-gag. Marcus lets off from the constant play along your sensitive armpits and lays Mr. Feather in between your taut breasts, as he hauls his bulk off of the bed, only to sit down again next to you.
He begins slowly working your p.j.-pants down around your hips, and you inadvertently jerk with a ticklish spasm, as your hips were and are one of your worst, most sensitive spots. “Huhuhunh”, Marcus grunts in satisfaction. With your legs spread wide across the bed sheets, he can only manage to pull down the cotton pants far enough to reveal the waistband of your little yellow Tweety-bird panties. The cartoon birdie seems to almost wink out from behind the rolled down waistband of your sleeper-pants.
You attempt again to reason with your sadistic, obviously deranged brother-in-law, but all you can manage from behind the mouth full of rubber is a gurgling, garbled slur. “Oh, I agree, Squirt”, he teases, “You and are in for some big fun this afternoon, huhuhuh!” Almost as if to punctuate his words, there is a rumble of thunder, and a light patter of rain begins to plink, plink, plink down on the roof. It is only then that you realize that, as always when you’ve just awakened, you need to pee, and the sound of the droplets outside is like a beacon to your kidneys signaling for release. With the best pleading look you can muster, you attempt desperately to vocalize this sudden realization to Marcus, who, seemingly attentive, strokes stray hair from your face, “There there, Squirt. I know you’re afraid of lightening, but if there’s any coming, it’s far off from here”. In fury, you yell behind the gag, ending your tirade in a fit of chocking grief as Marcus checks your wrist and ankle-ties, taking a second to stroke the sole of your stockinged foot with a single fingertip, which causes you to lurch and yelp, “Just checking, huhuhunh!”, he smiles.
“Oh, baby sis, this will be an afternoon to remember! And I have a feeling you won’t be blabbing that pretty mouth about this to anyone this time, either. You raise a quizzical eyebrow, while the rain begins to pour down in a regular rhythm now, and your bladder responds in kind, aching with the need for relief. Grinning like a loon, Marcus plays his trump-card, “That’s right, Squirt, I dug around in your things and found your photos from one of those wild dorm parties. Looks like you were having too good a time, yes?”, he smirks. Your heart sinks, and you shut your eyes in shame. If Mom and Dad see those photos, they’ll pull you out of school quicker than you can say, ‘A,B,C’.
Marcus is standing next to the bed, practically drooling over you, as he announces, “I’ll be back with some scissors for those pants, Squirt.”. At this news, you resume struggling against your bonds. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. I’m not gonna do the nasty. You ARE still my little sister, even if you HAVE grown into a total hottie. Too bad you’re not wearing that black thong like in the pictures, but those Tweetie-bird panties are awfully cute, too”, he grins, and if possible, you would kill him then and there. “I think I’ll see if I can find that vibrating ‘back massager’ Mom and Dad always used to keep hidden in their room, though”, he winks. A wave of utter revulsion sweeps over you, winding up down in your bladder. There’s no way you’re going to be able to keep from peeing yourself if you can’t find a way to clue him into the fact somehow. The way he’s behaving, you’re not even sure if he wouldn’t get some kind of twisted jollies from seeing you wet your bed! “Hang tight, Squirt, while I go try to roust up some ‘play toys’”, says Marcus, as he gives a little pat to the side of your hip. “Oh, one last little item…”, and he pulls out a dark scarf, lifts your head, and tightly ties it into an effective blindfold. “There now. Be sure and think about the fun you and I are gonna have rediscovering all those lil’ tickly-wiggly spots up and down that sexy bod of yours when I get back, kiddo.” And you are left helpless, squirming against your bonds, in total darkness, unable to emit more than a plaintive mewling sound behind the painful ball-gag filling your mouth as you hear him close the door behind him.
With your brother gone, you are left to your predicament for what feels like a half hour (but is probably no more than mere minutes). The little things become enormous in your limited environment. The necktie binding your right hand is too tight, and your hand is throbbing slightly. The approaching storm arrives, with a corresponding commotion as rain falls outside. Your groin actually hurts now from holding back the need to pee. The blindfold is on so tightly, it’s squeezing your eyelids shut, and you attempt to wriggle your head around in the hopes of adjusting it even the slightest, with no results. You can hear the clock on the nightstand ‘ticktickticking’ away seconds that feel like minutes. Thoughts dart in and out of your head like bees in a hive when, suddenly, with a crack and a loud ‘POW!’, lightening strikes quite close to the house, and the terrible sound of the thunder frightens you so badly, a sudden trickle of pee runs down your thigh and under your bottom. With the renewed burst of rain it brings, and the warm, wet sensation now growing below, you again allow a small stream to escape. Already soaking and miserable, you give in and relax your bladder, as the mattress rapidly dampens into a pool of pee underneath you. “Jesus, Squirt! Glad I snuck-in and managed to get the camcorder rolling for THAT little spectacle.” You are shocked to the core of your being that he managed to re-enter the room without your even hearing it(unless he never actually left!). “You sure know how to live up to a nickname, don’t you, Huhuhuh!”, you hear him guffaw. “That was even better than the time I managed to make you wet your shorts when we were kids! I’m gonna leave it to you to explain the bedwetting to the Units when they get home, Squirtie”.
Suddenly, you shudder as you feel the cold metal of scissors glance across your leg, and hear the snipping away of your soggy pajama-bottoms and Tweety-bird panties. It turns out that you do indeed have another brief sprinkle to share. “Hey! Cut it out, already! What are you? The Human-pee-fountain or something? You got my knee wet with that one, Squirt!”.
You lay there, naked and shivering abit now, as the pee-soaked mattress grows cold below you. “You know the saying, babe: ‘You wet your bed, now lie in it’, or something like that, Huhuhunh. But I’m gonna do you a slight favor, sis”, and with that, you can feel his burly arm hoist your slender waist up off of the bed. To your horror, not one but two pillows are placed below your bottom, raising your hips high off the mattress, your pussy exposed to your sick brother-in-law as you choke back a sob behind the gag. “Well, well! You have been the little wild-child away at college, Squirt! I’m sure Mom would be so proud to know that you decided to get your clit pierced as part of your 'higher education'. Nice wax-job on that lil’ cootchie-cooter, too, if I must say!”. Your shouted, “Fuck you!” in response comes out as a mere, “Glargh-gru!” mumble.
You feel his full weight on the bed now, and his hips and knees as he kneels in between your splayed-out slender legs. “Is he going to go back on his promise, and rape me right here while Mom and Dad are gone wherever-the-hell they went this morning?” you wonder. But no, the sudden dancing of Mr. Feather randomly across the exposed areas of your face and neck send you into a squirming, gagged fit as you desperately try to avoid the prickly, maddening sensation. Then, it stops, and you catch your breath just long enough before it begins. Those surprisingly nimble fingertips you recall all too well from your youth, ever-so-slowly beginning their spider-crawl along your collar. You scream and sputter, thrashing madly, yet moving oh, so desperately little against your bonds as his fingers make their way down to your shoulders and then your underarms(!). Bucking fruitlessly, they stay there for an excruciatingly long time, until you are choking so badly behind the gag that Marcus finally lets up the assault. You try to tell him how badly your wrists, back, and the growing cramp in your right thigh are all hurting you, but he merely hushes you with a cloying, “Shhhhh. There, there, Squirt-ums” in your ear, causing you to shudder.
You jerk wildly to attention again as you suddenly feel those cold fingertips ever so gently teasing your nipples. You gasp, and emit a gurgling moan of involuntary pleasure as he quietly coaxes your sensitive nipples into arousal. Despite the high arched position of your hips, you begin grinding your pelvis, and reel in horror as you suddenly feel what must be the crotch of Marcus’s jeans pressing against your naked groin. “Good God!”, you think, as you realize he is dry-humping your crotch while he plays with your nipples.
Suddenly, he leaves off again, and you are left with the sensation of firecrackers going off in your brain, wondering just how far your older brother intends to go with this teasing torment. You again jerk wildly against the bonds, as you feel his hands on your hips, but it is only to readjust the pillows under your butt. You feel his weight shift on the bed, and breathe a sigh of relief as he apparently inspects your hands and feet, which are all throbbing yet slightly numb now. You feel the tension lessen on the bond holding your right arm, but are too stiff from fighting to do more than be thankful for the reprieve, as he reties that necktie, again leaving you helplessly splayed across your bed, exposed and utterly vulnerable to whatever twisted ideas he has in mind next.
You find out soon enough, as those maddening fingertips are suddenly tickling your left foot, then your right! You flop around wildly, making a horrible cacophony of screaming/laughing/gurgling sounds, legs kicking frantically against the tight ties to the bedposts down at the foot of the bed. Even through your ankle socks, the tickling on your feet has always been your ‘Kryptonite’, and if you hadn’t already peed yourself, you’d be doing so now. “Gawd, but I have always loved tickling your feet the best, Squirt! Huhuhunh!”. Then, and despite knowing full well that it’s coming, you feel him snake those sweaty ankle-socks off one at a time, and then resumes toying with your feet, causing you to shiver reflexively. “I swear, babydoll! I think your feet are even more ticklish now than when we were kids!”. Amidst the thrashing and screaming, you silently resolve to murder your brother-in-law if/when you ever get out of this.
And it doesn’t seem as though he’ll ever stop! You alternate between breathlessness and making wild, almost scary animal snorts behind the mouth-widening ball-gag, sent into the worst conniption of your entire life. You pray that you might just pass out, if that’s the only escape avenue available to you. Every square inch of your being is now racked with pain from the squirming and flopping around, and you are soaked from head to toe in sweat, when, suddenly, the phone rings!
Mercifully, Marcus stops the agonizing tickle torture, and after several rings, you hear your Mom’s sing-song voice come on the answering machine: “Hey you two! Hope you’re both up and enjoying seeing each other again after so long! We’re stranded out here in ‘Hicksville’ while your Father goes to find someone with a patch kit and a pump. We had a flat, and all of our equipment is missing from the trunk. Marcus, did you borrow the spare tire? Anyway, we hope to be home by…let’s see…what time is it, oh, say 7 or 8pm if lucky. At least it isn’t raining here. Hope you kids are staying out of trouble there, and there’s some money for a pizza on the counter if you get hungry. Okay, Love You!” *beep*; and your one shot at salvation is off the line, just like that.
“Huhuhunh. Well, well. Wonder how that happened, huh, Squirt?”, you hear Marcus say as you again feel his full weight on the bed. “Gosh, sis! That leaves us another coupla hours to play, just you and me, and Mr. Feather, and this little gizmo”, and from down near your pelvis, you suddenly hear a click and a steady ‘Bzzzzzzz….’. Then, a tiny *clink* as the vibrator barely touches your piercing, sending you into paroxysms of unavoidable arousal as you buck against the bindings holding you fast.
Rick Tibbler ~ 2007
RAINY DAY GAMES
[In the dream, you’re outside, sunning on a lawn chair with your dorm mate, Jasmine. The two of you are laughing about all the horn-dog college boys, while a butterfly flits around your heads. It hovers next to your face, tiny wings grazing the tip of your nose. You try to brush it away, but it alights, and continues tickling your cheek and down your neck. When it reaches your ear, you let out a little squeal…]
Your eyes fly open, but the butterfly-tickles don’t end like they should.
“Morning sunshine!” It’s your older brother-in-law, Marcus. “Heard you were home from college, Squirt.”(God, how you always hated that nickname). “Marcus! Let me the fuck up NOW, dammit!” you try in the sternest voice you can muster. You attempt to squirm your way out from under him on the bed, and it’s only then that you realize he doesn’t have you pinioned under him like he used to do when you were kids. He laughs that annoying, low, 'Huhuhunh'-chuckle he used to always make when he was about to torment you, and with mounting horror, you discover that, while you were sleeping, he has quietly-but-securely bound you in a taut spread-eagle to your old four-poster bed!
Now the panic sets-in, and you begin to fight the tight restraints, as your heart begins pounding wildly in your chest, “The HELL is this, asshole?!?” you shout. He is leering down at your bosom, heaving under the sheer pink-and-white-polka dot camisole-top. With increasing dread, you see your dream-butterfly flit into view. It’s ‘Mr. Feather’ (his stupid pet-name). You’d thought you would never see that long, stiff, black-&-white imitation eagle-feather again. It was a leftover from one of Mom’s craft projects, but in the hands of your older brother, it became an instrument of torture throughout your youth.
“Huhuhunh”, Marcus grins as he again ply’s the tip of the soft bristles lightly across your forehead and bridge of your nose, sending a wave of goose bumps cascading down your entire body as you try to jerk your head away. “Sweet! I see you’re still as ticklish as ever, Squirt! I heard you were home, and Mom and Dad will be back soon, provided the car doesn’t give them any trouble”, he winks ominously. “In the meantime, I thought you and I could play some tickle-games again, like we used to when we were kids, Huhuhunh! You’re a big girl now, though, so I thought alittle help from Dad’s neckties was in order”, he says referring to the bonds that keep you secured spread and helpless to move below while he hovers over you.
“Marcus, you bastard”, you begin, only to erupt in a fit of giggles as the feather ever so slowly glides down to your neck and collar-area. You let out a high pitched shriek and thrash your head back-and-forth madly, it being the only movement available to you. “Jeez, Squirt! You trying to shatter my eardrums or somethin’?” he laughs. You try a different tact, “Look, Marcus, we’re not kids anymore, and this isn’t funny, you asshole!” “Tsk, tsk. Doesn’t sound like college has helped your vocabulary any, Squirt, Huhuhunh”, Marcus grins, as he sets the feather aside. “I MEAN it, Marcus!” and whatever you are about to say next is suddenly frozen in your throat as he whips out a pink ball, like a dog-toy, only with a cord running through the middle.
Eyes wide, it dawns on you what he intends to do, “Marcus…” you begin, the words failing you. “Shhh, shhh, now, Squirt”, he says, as he attempts to fit the large ball into your tightly clamped-shut mouth. “No sense in fighting it, kiddo”, says Marcus, as he squeezes your nostrils shut with his left hand. You hold out as long as you can, but the air’s gotta come. As soon as you open your mouth to breath in, he is forcibly wedging the big rubber ball into it. Your scream is reduced to a muffled murmur, and already, he is tying the lace tightly behind your neck. “There, huhuhuh.”, he says, sitting back, still straddling your hips with his hands on his knees. You jaw is already aching as you try in vain to clamp down on the big rubber ball.
You close your teary eyes to try to blot out the horror of Marcus’s terrible leer as he, grinning, begins to ever-so-gently roll your flimsy camisole up, exposing your breasts to the cool of the room. Your nipples instantly stand at attention, as he continues to roll your cami completely out of the way, leaving you topless and shuddering, your pajama pants still affording some tiny measure of dignity. “Daayaamn, Squirt! You HAVE grown up!” he laughs. “It’s gonna be so much fun watching those puppies jiggle while Mr. Feather brings the giggles!”. Mortified at your predicament, you begin to cry behind the big pink gag, letting out little choked sobs that almost pass for laughter. “There, see! You’re already getting into the spirit! Huhuhunh!”.
Grinning with sheer evil intent, he plies Mr. Feather ever so slowly doooown and back uuuuup along one underarm, acrooooss your collar, and then doooown and uuuuup across the other, rhythmically, and despite your frantic best efforts, you can only wriggle in a ticklish sort of stasis, breathing in short gasps behind the mouth-filling gag. He continues this excruciatingly slow torment as he explains, “I can’t tell you how much I missed our fun back in the day, kiddo. It’s been afew years now, but I wanna find out if you’re still the same ticklish lil’ twerp you used to be.” You punctuate this twisted admission by falling into a full fledged crying jag behind the ball-gag. Marcus lets off from the constant play along your sensitive armpits and lays Mr. Feather in between your taut breasts, as he hauls his bulk off of the bed, only to sit down again next to you.
He begins slowly working your p.j.-pants down around your hips, and you inadvertently jerk with a ticklish spasm, as your hips were and are one of your worst, most sensitive spots. “Huhuhunh”, Marcus grunts in satisfaction. With your legs spread wide across the bed sheets, he can only manage to pull down the cotton pants far enough to reveal the waistband of your little yellow Tweety-bird panties. The cartoon birdie seems to almost wink out from behind the rolled down waistband of your sleeper-pants.
You attempt again to reason with your sadistic, obviously deranged brother-in-law, but all you can manage from behind the mouth full of rubber is a gurgling, garbled slur. “Oh, I agree, Squirt”, he teases, “You and are in for some big fun this afternoon, huhuhuh!” Almost as if to punctuate his words, there is a rumble of thunder, and a light patter of rain begins to plink, plink, plink down on the roof. It is only then that you realize that, as always when you’ve just awakened, you need to pee, and the sound of the droplets outside is like a beacon to your kidneys signaling for release. With the best pleading look you can muster, you attempt desperately to vocalize this sudden realization to Marcus, who, seemingly attentive, strokes stray hair from your face, “There there, Squirt. I know you’re afraid of lightening, but if there’s any coming, it’s far off from here”. In fury, you yell behind the gag, ending your tirade in a fit of chocking grief as Marcus checks your wrist and ankle-ties, taking a second to stroke the sole of your stockinged foot with a single fingertip, which causes you to lurch and yelp, “Just checking, huhuhunh!”, he smiles.
“Oh, baby sis, this will be an afternoon to remember! And I have a feeling you won’t be blabbing that pretty mouth about this to anyone this time, either. You raise a quizzical eyebrow, while the rain begins to pour down in a regular rhythm now, and your bladder responds in kind, aching with the need for relief. Grinning like a loon, Marcus plays his trump-card, “That’s right, Squirt, I dug around in your things and found your photos from one of those wild dorm parties. Looks like you were having too good a time, yes?”, he smirks. Your heart sinks, and you shut your eyes in shame. If Mom and Dad see those photos, they’ll pull you out of school quicker than you can say, ‘A,B,C’.
Marcus is standing next to the bed, practically drooling over you, as he announces, “I’ll be back with some scissors for those pants, Squirt.”. At this news, you resume struggling against your bonds. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. I’m not gonna do the nasty. You ARE still my little sister, even if you HAVE grown into a total hottie. Too bad you’re not wearing that black thong like in the pictures, but those Tweetie-bird panties are awfully cute, too”, he grins, and if possible, you would kill him then and there. “I think I’ll see if I can find that vibrating ‘back massager’ Mom and Dad always used to keep hidden in their room, though”, he winks. A wave of utter revulsion sweeps over you, winding up down in your bladder. There’s no way you’re going to be able to keep from peeing yourself if you can’t find a way to clue him into the fact somehow. The way he’s behaving, you’re not even sure if he wouldn’t get some kind of twisted jollies from seeing you wet your bed! “Hang tight, Squirt, while I go try to roust up some ‘play toys’”, says Marcus, as he gives a little pat to the side of your hip. “Oh, one last little item…”, and he pulls out a dark scarf, lifts your head, and tightly ties it into an effective blindfold. “There now. Be sure and think about the fun you and I are gonna have rediscovering all those lil’ tickly-wiggly spots up and down that sexy bod of yours when I get back, kiddo.” And you are left helpless, squirming against your bonds, in total darkness, unable to emit more than a plaintive mewling sound behind the painful ball-gag filling your mouth as you hear him close the door behind him.
With your brother gone, you are left to your predicament for what feels like a half hour (but is probably no more than mere minutes). The little things become enormous in your limited environment. The necktie binding your right hand is too tight, and your hand is throbbing slightly. The approaching storm arrives, with a corresponding commotion as rain falls outside. Your groin actually hurts now from holding back the need to pee. The blindfold is on so tightly, it’s squeezing your eyelids shut, and you attempt to wriggle your head around in the hopes of adjusting it even the slightest, with no results. You can hear the clock on the nightstand ‘ticktickticking’ away seconds that feel like minutes. Thoughts dart in and out of your head like bees in a hive when, suddenly, with a crack and a loud ‘POW!’, lightening strikes quite close to the house, and the terrible sound of the thunder frightens you so badly, a sudden trickle of pee runs down your thigh and under your bottom. With the renewed burst of rain it brings, and the warm, wet sensation now growing below, you again allow a small stream to escape. Already soaking and miserable, you give in and relax your bladder, as the mattress rapidly dampens into a pool of pee underneath you. “Jesus, Squirt! Glad I snuck-in and managed to get the camcorder rolling for THAT little spectacle.” You are shocked to the core of your being that he managed to re-enter the room without your even hearing it(unless he never actually left!). “You sure know how to live up to a nickname, don’t you, Huhuhuh!”, you hear him guffaw. “That was even better than the time I managed to make you wet your shorts when we were kids! I’m gonna leave it to you to explain the bedwetting to the Units when they get home, Squirtie”.
Suddenly, you shudder as you feel the cold metal of scissors glance across your leg, and hear the snipping away of your soggy pajama-bottoms and Tweety-bird panties. It turns out that you do indeed have another brief sprinkle to share. “Hey! Cut it out, already! What are you? The Human-pee-fountain or something? You got my knee wet with that one, Squirt!”.
You lay there, naked and shivering abit now, as the pee-soaked mattress grows cold below you. “You know the saying, babe: ‘You wet your bed, now lie in it’, or something like that, Huhuhunh. But I’m gonna do you a slight favor, sis”, and with that, you can feel his burly arm hoist your slender waist up off of the bed. To your horror, not one but two pillows are placed below your bottom, raising your hips high off the mattress, your pussy exposed to your sick brother-in-law as you choke back a sob behind the gag. “Well, well! You have been the little wild-child away at college, Squirt! I’m sure Mom would be so proud to know that you decided to get your clit pierced as part of your 'higher education'. Nice wax-job on that lil’ cootchie-cooter, too, if I must say!”. Your shouted, “Fuck you!” in response comes out as a mere, “Glargh-gru!” mumble.
You feel his full weight on the bed now, and his hips and knees as he kneels in between your splayed-out slender legs. “Is he going to go back on his promise, and rape me right here while Mom and Dad are gone wherever-the-hell they went this morning?” you wonder. But no, the sudden dancing of Mr. Feather randomly across the exposed areas of your face and neck send you into a squirming, gagged fit as you desperately try to avoid the prickly, maddening sensation. Then, it stops, and you catch your breath just long enough before it begins. Those surprisingly nimble fingertips you recall all too well from your youth, ever-so-slowly beginning their spider-crawl along your collar. You scream and sputter, thrashing madly, yet moving oh, so desperately little against your bonds as his fingers make their way down to your shoulders and then your underarms(!). Bucking fruitlessly, they stay there for an excruciatingly long time, until you are choking so badly behind the gag that Marcus finally lets up the assault. You try to tell him how badly your wrists, back, and the growing cramp in your right thigh are all hurting you, but he merely hushes you with a cloying, “Shhhhh. There, there, Squirt-ums” in your ear, causing you to shudder.
You jerk wildly to attention again as you suddenly feel those cold fingertips ever so gently teasing your nipples. You gasp, and emit a gurgling moan of involuntary pleasure as he quietly coaxes your sensitive nipples into arousal. Despite the high arched position of your hips, you begin grinding your pelvis, and reel in horror as you suddenly feel what must be the crotch of Marcus’s jeans pressing against your naked groin. “Good God!”, you think, as you realize he is dry-humping your crotch while he plays with your nipples.
Suddenly, he leaves off again, and you are left with the sensation of firecrackers going off in your brain, wondering just how far your older brother intends to go with this teasing torment. You again jerk wildly against the bonds, as you feel his hands on your hips, but it is only to readjust the pillows under your butt. You feel his weight shift on the bed, and breathe a sigh of relief as he apparently inspects your hands and feet, which are all throbbing yet slightly numb now. You feel the tension lessen on the bond holding your right arm, but are too stiff from fighting to do more than be thankful for the reprieve, as he reties that necktie, again leaving you helplessly splayed across your bed, exposed and utterly vulnerable to whatever twisted ideas he has in mind next.
You find out soon enough, as those maddening fingertips are suddenly tickling your left foot, then your right! You flop around wildly, making a horrible cacophony of screaming/laughing/gurgling sounds, legs kicking frantically against the tight ties to the bedposts down at the foot of the bed. Even through your ankle socks, the tickling on your feet has always been your ‘Kryptonite’, and if you hadn’t already peed yourself, you’d be doing so now. “Gawd, but I have always loved tickling your feet the best, Squirt! Huhuhunh!”. Then, and despite knowing full well that it’s coming, you feel him snake those sweaty ankle-socks off one at a time, and then resumes toying with your feet, causing you to shiver reflexively. “I swear, babydoll! I think your feet are even more ticklish now than when we were kids!”. Amidst the thrashing and screaming, you silently resolve to murder your brother-in-law if/when you ever get out of this.
And it doesn’t seem as though he’ll ever stop! You alternate between breathlessness and making wild, almost scary animal snorts behind the mouth-widening ball-gag, sent into the worst conniption of your entire life. You pray that you might just pass out, if that’s the only escape avenue available to you. Every square inch of your being is now racked with pain from the squirming and flopping around, and you are soaked from head to toe in sweat, when, suddenly, the phone rings!
Mercifully, Marcus stops the agonizing tickle torture, and after several rings, you hear your Mom’s sing-song voice come on the answering machine: “Hey you two! Hope you’re both up and enjoying seeing each other again after so long! We’re stranded out here in ‘Hicksville’ while your Father goes to find someone with a patch kit and a pump. We had a flat, and all of our equipment is missing from the trunk. Marcus, did you borrow the spare tire? Anyway, we hope to be home by…let’s see…what time is it, oh, say 7 or 8pm if lucky. At least it isn’t raining here. Hope you kids are staying out of trouble there, and there’s some money for a pizza on the counter if you get hungry. Okay, Love You!” *beep*; and your one shot at salvation is off the line, just like that.
“Huhuhunh. Well, well. Wonder how that happened, huh, Squirt?”, you hear Marcus say as you again feel his full weight on the bed. “Gosh, sis! That leaves us another coupla hours to play, just you and me, and Mr. Feather, and this little gizmo”, and from down near your pelvis, you suddenly hear a click and a steady ‘Bzzzzzzz….’. Then, a tiny *clink* as the vibrator barely touches your piercing, sending you into paroxysms of unavoidable arousal as you buck against the bindings holding you fast.
THE END
Rick Tibbler ~ 2007
