There exists a certain type of man in this world. Ticklish. Submissive. Weak. Maybe they've managed to hide this side of themselves from their girlfriends, wives, bosses and bullies; but they know, deep down, that they aren't real men. All they are, all they ever are, are pathetic little ticklish wimps, never further than one stroke of a finger away from being revealed to the whole world. What follows is a series of short tales documenting such an exposure, each one a glimpse into a possible future that awaits all pitifully ticklish men. Read on if you fit that description--you know who you are--this may happen to you one day, after all. If you're a strong, non-ticklish man who enjoys the suffering of others, or perhaps a sadistic woman who feels empowered only when a pathetic wimp is giggling under your fingers, read on as well. Perhaps you can derive some pleasure from the suffering of lesser men.
The road trip:
You wanted the divorce in Nevada. Your pre-nuptial agreement was strong, guaranteeing an equitable distribution of assets, and Nevada courts had a good track record of allowing a newly divorced man to walk out of the courtroom with at least a few dollars to his name. Your wife, soon to be ex-wife, filed in California; a more “enlightened” state that rarely recognized pre-nups under the best of conditions. She was going to take it all from you: The house, the car, half your money, and all of your dignity. Those were the exact words she used in her last communication to you, a short text sent moments before your number was blocked. It was so like her to be vindictive and cruel, even in severing the bonds you had swore to uphold until death did you part. It was bad enough she had to cheat on you with your best friend—she wanted to ruin you as well. Your lawyers advised you not to worry; unless you were physically in California to be served papers, she would apparently have a hard time contesting your earlier filing. All you had to do was wait around a few weeks, safe in sound in your home state, while the paper work went through.
But your wife had other plans.
They hit you after work as the fatigue of the day was already heavily set in. Your focus blurry as you trudged one foot in front of the other on the long walk home, you didn’t realize what was happening until it already had. A pair of strong arms grabbed you from behind, forcing you into the backseat of a car before you could so much as blink. Your body was thrown up against another, someone you immediately recognized. It was Amanda, your wife’s best friend, the maid of honor at your wedding. She batted her eyelashes at you.
“Hello Doug. Fancy meeting you here.” You opened your mouth to reply, but were distracted by another body smushing into you from the other side. Turning to your right, you saw another familiar face: Lucy, your wife’s college roommate. A former rugby player, Lucy was 180 pounds of pure athletic muscle, with a surly attitude to match. You and she had never gotten along, and now, with her massive frame pinning you into Amanda, you started to feel a sense of foreboding dread. Without any further introduction, Lucy gripped your wrist hard, yanking your arm above your head and inserting it into the carseat headrest to your right. Click. She pushed the thing down, firmly locking your wrist in place. To your horror, the thing wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard you pulled. Amanda jockeyed for the other wrist, but not having the same raw strength as the other woman, you were able to fight her off, now fully panicking as the reality of the situation set in. The two women just laughed as you struggled, treating this as a fun game between friends as you fought for your life. Lucy leaned across you, pressing her elbow into your stomach. The air knocked out of you, Amanda could easily bind your left arm as well, similarly locking it in place with the other headrest. As you flailed and tried to free you arms, they finished their work. Each woman grabbed a kicking leg, stripping off your shoes, then your socks, before inserting the now naked foot into the driver’s and passengers headrest, finalizing your immobility. And immobile you were; spread eagle in the car, each limb tied to a different car seat, pulling your body in four directions as the two cackling women sandwiched you from both sides. You began to swear, to scream, to struggle, asking them what the fuck they thought they were doing, telling them that you’d go to the cops, that you’d never get away with this. They only taunted you in response.
“Oh yeah, tough guy?” Lucy cooed. “What are you going to do? You gonna kick my ass?”
“I wouldn’t be making threats, Doug. A man in your position is a little too—“ She untucked your dress shirt, unbuttoning it from the bottom up.”—exposed.” She whispered the last word in your ear, sending goosebumps down your spine. You indeed were starting to feel exposed, with Amanda unclasping the last button and letting you shirt hang open. Your bare chest hung there in the open air, with the feeling of violation worsened still as she pulled the shirt down over your shoulders. You were now effectively topless, your hairy chest, stomach, and armpits now completely exposed. Your threats soon turned to whimpers, eyeing the two deviously grinning women with fear. But of course, it was about to get, much, much worse. The driver’s doors opened, and two more people entered the vehicle. IN the driver’s seat was Mark; a tall, handsome fellow, formerly your best friend and now your wife’s lover. He turned back to greet you, that same cheery smile he always wore, the same deceitful grin he had been giving you during all those months he was fucking your wife behind your back.
You hated that smile.
“Hey buddy.” He said, nonchalant. “Been a while since we went on a road trip, huh? Feels just like old times.” He gave your bare foot a pat, causing you to twitch. Even that slightest of touches was enough to tickle you, a sensation that Mark knew you despised. The second new arrival was your wife. She took her place in the passenger seat, immediately drawing Mark into a deep kiss. The jealousy and humiliation you felt was only overshadowed by your fear. Your wife turned back to you, a look of disgust and hate plastered on her face.
“Well, my loser of a soon-to-be ex-husband, I hope you brought some snacks.” She smiled lovingly at Mark. “Cause we’re going to California.”
The car peeled out of the parking lot, heading towards the highway at 70 miles per hour. It was a brilliant plan on their part, even you had to admit. Husband won’t agree to a fork over half his stuff in the divorce? Need to get him to California to collect the nuptial tidings you know you deserve? No problem! Just pack him up into a car, take him there against his will, and let the law do the rest. All you need is two gal-pals (helps if one of them is rugby player that could fold your loser ex in half), the new, better man you’re replacing him with, and a set of wheels. After that it’s just a…what? Six hour drive to LA? Of course, with a drive that long, you’ll need some entertainment. As soon as the car marked onto the highway, you felt a horrible sensation on your right foot. Your wife was shaking her head back and forth, gently brushing her thick, black bob cut along the underside of your foot. You tried to fight the sensation, the giggles choked back in your throat, but her hair was relentless, flipping and flopping constantly over the length of your sole, covering every inch in that silky-soft hair that you found so attractive. Any hope of holding out disappeared when Mark joined in. He rested his buzz cut on your left foot, rocking it up and down with slow precision. The feeling of a thousand sharp bristles scraping across your sole sent you into hysterics. Each foot was in a different world—the right; a fluffy, soft prison of hair, the left; a hell of sharp scratching bristles. You thrashed wildly, much to the delight of your kidnappers. It was such a simple weakness to exploit; they were driving you insane just by moving their heads a little. Mark had been the one to tell her of your secret weakness, having used it himself to torment you when you mere high school students. Throughout your marriage, your wife had always tickled you whenever she didn’t get her way. Didn’t do the dishes? She’d tickle your feet until those pans were spotless. Got into an argument? She’d slip in her fingers into your armpits right there in the middle of crowded restaurant, wiggling them around until you loudly admitted she was right. Tickles when you annoyed her, tickles when you didn’t, tickles when she had a bad day at work and just wanted to blow off some steam. It was part of the reason why you were so eager to secure that divorce, cheating not-withstanding. To your wife, it felt like karmic retribution that she would now be tickling you all the way to divorce court; she was going to get what was hers, and you had to take what was coming to you.
The tickling on your feet was bad enough, but it was only half the story. Mere seconds after the assault on your feet began, Lucy and Amanda joined in on the fun. Amanda took a soft approach, gently running her nails over your exposed upper body. Her meticulously manicured nails traced little circles in your pits, fluttered down to your stomach, traced over your happy trail and dipped into your belly button, skittered over your nipples and chest, back and forth from place to place, never spending more than a few seconds in each horribly ticklish target. Lucy took a different approach, slipping a full five fingers into your right pit, clawing at it with wild abandon. Her free hand traveled to your ribs, where she squeezed relentlessly. It was the same juxtaposition your feet were being subjected to—one tortuously soft, the other hard and unrelenting. It had the effect of keeping you from becoming used to any one sensation; the second hard tickles ceased to torture you, soft ones took their place, back and forth, an endless cycle of torment that had you wailing for mercy in minutes. But as the minutes turned to hours, your voice began to give out. Soon enough, you could only gasp between bouts of laughter, hoarsely muttering please, please no.They didn’t stop, of course; the point was to make you suffer.
The difference in tickling styles reflected the two women’s attitude towards you in general. Amanda was only here to be a good friend. The fact that she got to torment a helpless guy with some tickling was just an added bonus; it’s not everyday that you get to let out your inner sadist, and she secretly found the whole situation to be quite arousing. This is the kind of thing she had only ever fantasized about doing, and it turned her on to no end that the very man who had taken your wife from you was now the architect of your humiliation. She privately admitted to herself that she may have something of a cuckold fetish—cucking by proxy, maybe? All she knew was, it was fucking hot to make a man cry in front of his wife and new boyfriend. There was a certain sensuality to the way she stroked your armpits, almost the same way she would a lover’s cock, like she was milking pleasure out of them. She tormented you with a lustful compassion, gently cooing in your ears all the while: Cootchie coo, baby. Awwww, who’s a ticklish wittle guy? How does this feel? Do you like my tickly fingies in your pits? Laugh for me darling, keep laughing and begging. Lucy, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, just actually fucking hated you. She hated how much you and your wife argued, hated that you monopolized her time even back then in college, and most of all, hated how un-manly and wimpy you had always been. That had been the source of much of your mutual dislike; Lucy just never thought that you deserved to be with anyone, much less her best friend. So as she tickled you relentlessly, it was to inflict maximum torture, the utmost suffering she could while she had you here at her mercy. Eventually, she stopped tickling you all together, opting for something even worse. You had made a comment years ago, one that you had forgotten, but Lucy had most assuredly not. When she would come back to the dorm after rugby practice, covered in sweat and grime, you’d wrinkle your nose and complain about the smell. She’d usually respond by throwing her sweaty jersey and socks at you, which disgusted you to no end. It all came to a head when you demanded she take a shower if she was going to be around you. It had started an argument then, one that you probably lost, but now Lucy was going to make sure you really lost.
While Amanda continued to torment your upper body, and hair danced in between your toes, Lucy reached a hand into her own armpit. When it emerged, it was covered in her sweat. She smeared it all over your face, even dipping her fingers into your wide open mouth. You gagged as the scent of it filled your nostrils, the thick, womanly scent of this angry, vengeful athlete. She kept going, adding more sweat to your face, mocking you all the while.
“Still think I stink?” She yelled. “Well now you stink, too. You smell like my fucking armpits, loser. How do they tase, bitch?” She opted for a more direct approach, grabbing the back of your head and completely enveloping your nose and mouth in her large, muscular underarm. “Lick me clean, you fucking pussy. Lick me clean or I’ll stop this car and go for a fucking run in this heat. Lick!” There was literally nothing else in this entire world that you would rather do less. You would rather be tickled for the rest of your life than debase yourself like this, than makeout with the unbearable stench that had always disgusted you. But you did it anyway. You ran your tongue over her stubble, through every crease and fold on the pit that held your face hostage. What else could you do? You were trapped. Helpless. Completely at their mercy. Lucy felt on top of the world, easily dominating the man who had cruelly insulted her all those years ago. It was vengeance at its most sweet. Amanda was practically dizzy from arousal at this point. Her mind was filled with horrible fantasies, each more depraved than the last. How far can we push this? She thought, practically nearing an orgasm. We could make him our slave. Tie him up and the basement and tickle him for days on end. What if I tickled him while Mark fucked his wife? We could lock him in a chastity cage—deny him an orgasm unless he’s licking Lucy’s sweat. He probably wouldn’t even be able to get it up! We could train him, make him associate armpits with arousal, turn him from a man into a pit-sniffing tickle-cuck! Oh god…this is so fucking hot. I want to keep this pathetic little slut as a pet! She couldn’t help herself; she would need this on video. She took out her phone, recording your forced pit-worship with an interest bordering on obsession. You hardly noticed that she had stopped tickling you, your entire mind now consumed with Lucy’s stench. On and on it went, switching from tickling to pit-licking, to Lucy holding her workout shoes over your nose, to shoving her sweaty socks in your mouth; from Amanda catching your worst moments on tape, to returning to the fun herself, setting your own pits ablaze with ticklish torment whenever she felt like you were getting it too easy. The hours counted down, but for you it might as well have been decades.
All the while, your wife and her lover ignored your existence, save for the swishing of their hair against your soles, occasionally running a finger or two down them when they got bored. They looked at each other lovingly, planning out their honeymoon. They’d get a hefty chunk of your money once the divorce went through; is Fiji nice this time of year? What were they thinking—Fiji is nice year-round. They were ecstatic. Young and in love, a bright future ahead of them, with their stormy past currently begging for mercy in the backseat. Hour five rolled around, then five and half. They were getting close to the border. She gave a signal, and the two woman in the backseat reluctantly stopped. Lucy pulled her armpit off of your face; Amanda ceased blowing raspberries on your stomach.
“Let me explain how this is going to go down.” Your wife said placidly. “We’ll give you a few minutes to get your shit together. We walk in, you sign where I need you to sign, and then we’re back in the car and headed home. You may be thinking of backing out, or of contacting the police, or some other nonsense.” She turned over her shoulder to glare you down. “If you do that, Amanda will send those videos to everyone that you know. Your boss. Your family. Your friends. She’ll post it to femdom porn sites, send it to ex-girlfriends; everyone will get to watch how much you love armpits and tickles. You’ll never be able to go anywhere without the shame following you.” She traced her nails across your toes, eliciting a pitiful yelp fro you. “Plus, on the ride back home, we’ll film you doing even worse things. Maybe Mark will take a turn in the backseat, if you catch my drift?”
Holy shit. Thought Amanda. I’m totally going to post those videos anyway. Can you imagine? Everyone in his life knowing what a submissive little ***** he is? As Amanda fantasized about ruining your life, Mark chimed in.
“You better do what she says, pal.” He added. “I’d hate to make you lick my armpits, tickle you until you piss yourself, force you to suck my cock, you know, etc etc. But our hands are kind of tied here, what with you trying to file in Nevada and all.”
“Uh, maybe we should just do that!” Amanda said excitedly. “Like, right now! Just to be safe, I mean. Let’s pull over. Lucy, you can switch with Mark, right?” Your wife just laughed.
“Easy there, girly. Let the man make up his mind first”. She replied, much to your relief. “If you’re good, I’ll only let them tickle you for half the ride home, ok? Best deal you’re going to get.” There wasn’t much of a decision to be made. As you crossed state lines, it played out exactly as she had laid out. They marched you to the nearest courthouse, and just like that, you’d signed your life away. The pre-nup? Gone. Your house? Hers now. Half your money? Wire would be through in just a few days. Your mind was a numb, tingling mess as they ushered you pack to the car. You didn’t even put up a fight as they locked you back into place, such was the extent of your despair. They cheered and hollered as you pulled back onto the highway—it would be a long trip home, but at least they had the world’s greatest entertainment system to keep them company. At least you would only be tormented for three hours, instead of six, right?
“About that…” Your now ex-wife said with a smirk. “It was a lie. Sorry.” She stuck out her tongue playfully. All hope completely left you, the death sentence of another six hours of hell too much to bear. You started to cry as Lucy raised her arms above her head, as Amanda readied her fingers to re-enter your tingling armpits. You made one last desperate plea.
“Baby, please.” You choked out through sobs. “If you ever loved, ever cared about me…just make them leave me alone on the trip back. I was good, I-I did what you asked…”
“Love?” She snorted. “What, Doug? This doesn’t feel like love?” She brushed her hair over your soles, a slow, deliberate drag from heel to toe. You screeched and bucked as she laughed. “This is the only kind of love you’ll ever feel. Be happy I’m even touching you. How about this.” She resumed the shaking of her head, as did Mark, the scratchy-soft horrors washing over you anew. “If you agree to come to our wedding—its June 12th, by the way, save the date—I won’t have Mark come back there to get his cock sucked on film. Deal? We’ll put you in a room right next to ours. That way you can hear us fucking while Lucy uses you as a sweat rag.” And with that, they descended on you. Lucy, enacting her revenge. Amanda, playing out her sickest fantasies, already plotting to make you hers. And your ex-wife and best friend, happy together, now the proud owners of half your net worth, both of your feet, and all of your dignity.
It was going to be a long ride.
The haunted house:
Fright Town: Extreme Haunted House. It wasn’t exactly your thing—you were more the rollercoaster type guy as far as thrill seeking was concerned. But your girlfriend had insisted, and so here you were. The gimmick here was the “extreme” part, with the actors being allowed to touch you, something that was normally off limits. You still couldn’t touch them of course, but apparently they were allowed to push you around, lightly grab your hair, splash you with water and fake blood, that kind of thing. The idea didn’t particularly appeal to you, but your girlfriend Claire was something of a horror junkie, so you put on your least-valued tank top and took her. Screams and maniacal laughter echoed through the house as you waited in line. As group after group had their tickets examined, they were led through the dark hallway into the haunted house. It wasn’t exactly a house, though. The whole theme of the place was a haunted carnival, and so what lay before you was closer to an over-sized circus tent. The line got shorter and shorter, and soon enough, it was your turn to enter. A grim looking clown, blood covering his fake sharpened teeth, reached out a gloved hand for your tickets. He stared unblinkingly at you, and you had to admit to a certain degree of nerves as you handed them over. Your girlfriend, perhaps sensing your apprehension, jabbed her fingers into your ribs.
“Ah!” You shouted, batting her hands away. She just grinned impishly up at you. She knew you hated being tickled, so she naturally it was her favorite way to get under your skin.
“Someone’s a little scaaaared.” She teased. The clown let out a low chuckle.
“I’m not scared.” You huffed. “Clowns are just kind of lame, if you ask me.” You swear the ticketing-clown got a glint in his eye when you said that.
“Have fun.” He rasped. “Little man.” You glance sideways at the little man comment, but your girlfriend just giggles, grabbing your hand and leading you into the dark. You stumbled through the first hallway, jumping a little as clown animatronics jumped out at you from the shadows. Your girlfriend was truly in her element, letting out a shriek of fear and joy every time. It was a pretty standard experience; everyone and a while an actor would jump out brandishing a chainsaw or butcher knife, yelling some nonsense only tangentially related to clowns or halloween. It was alright, you thought. Not exactly extreme thus far, but that was fine by you. After a few minutes, you approach a fork in the path. Two blood-splattered doors, each leading off to who knows where. A dimly lit sign flickers to life above each entrance: One reads Ladies, while the other says gents.
“Oh.” She says quizzically. “I guess we’re supposed to split up?” You’re about to protest—you came here together, after all. But without warning, clowns burst out of each door. Two of them take your girlfriend gently by the hands.
“Right this way, miss.” They say, grinning with creepy smiles. “Plenty of fun this way.” The other two grab you much more harshly, gripping your shoulders and wrists tight and ushering you towards the gents door. “You’re coming with us, little man.” They growled, getting uncomfortable close to your face. “You’ll be lucky to make it out of here in one piece!” You start trying to shake them off, but your girlfriend is laughing with glee, and already accompanying her escorts through the door.
“We’ll meet up at the end!” She cried over her shoulder. “Just go with it!” And just like that, she was gone. So, you reluctantly allow your captors to take you through your door as well. They drag you through a dimly lit hallway, then around a corner, then another, then another, all the while continuing with their threats of violence, ruffling your hair, pinching your cheeks, assuring you that this would be the last time you walked the earth. It wasn’t scary, so much as annoying, but you had to admit that you were getting disoriented in the maze of strobe-lighted hallways that this tent was seemingly composed of. Eventually, the clowns release you into a darkroom. A spotlight turns on, illuminating two metal chains hanging from the ceiling, shackles at their base. One of them steps behind you, while the other walks forward towards the chains. He beckons you forward. After a moment of hesitation, you comply. Without warning, both clowns grab your wrists, thrusting them above your head towards the manacles. You wrench you hands away from them.
“What the fuck?!” You cry. “You’re not tying me up.” This was not in the brochure.
“Our rules, kid.” One of the clowns says sternly. “No touching the actors. If you resist again, you and your girlfriend are getting kicked out—got it?” You sighed. If you were the reason Claire got kicked out of this place, you’d be sleeping on the couch for weeks. So reluctantly, you let the clowns do their work. Click, click. The two shackles were locked into place. You gave them a cursory tug, but they held firm. One of the clowns tugged on winch near your feet. Ca-chunk. Your arms straightened as the bonds were drawn closer to the ceiling. They were now completely taught, and you were even pulled onto your tip-toes. Almost involuntarily, you began to struggle.
“Ah!” You cried out. “These are a little tight, guys.” The clowns only chuckled in response. Huh. You thought. I guess this is the extreme part. One of the clowns, a fellow dressed in all red, circled in front of you while the other ducked out of your view. You struggled to turn and watch where he was going, but your bondage didn’t allow for much movement. Your stress levels were actually starting to rise as the red clown got closer.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here.” He grinned sinisterly. “You can call me Mr. Red. That over there is Mr. Blue. You know, I had a word with the front desk. A little birdy told me that youuuuu.” He put his face a mere inch from yours. “Have a little secret.” He whispered. “A rather embarrassing one at that, I might add.” You felt a pit form in your stomach. “He tells me that you—“ He produced two fluffy, red feathers from his waistband. “Are a ticklish little man. Is that right?” His grin grew wider as he saw the fear in your eyes.
“W-wait!” You cried, as panic started to set in. “I don’t want to be—eeh!” Your protests are cut short as the feathers begin to lightly trace down your arm.
“Uh-oh.” Mr. Red sneered. “Looks like the rumors were true. Bad luck for you, boy—“ The feathers slid quickly past your elbow, causing your whole body to jerk. “And great luck for us.” The feathers continued their descent towards the hollows of your underarm, stretched so taught above your head and only scarcely protected by a smattering of the brown hair. You started to struggle, but you weren’t going anywhere. You were having a full blown panic attack now. You hated being tickled, really, truly hated it, and it was made infinitely worse by the sudden realization that A) Clowns were not lame, and B) you were kind of afraid of them. The feathers closed in on your pits with increasing speed, like a count down clock to your destruction. You knew, and judging nay your reactions, Mr. Red knew as well, that the second your hollows were entered it would be all over for you.
“Please…” You squealed, tears in your eyes. “Don’t.” Mr. Red just smiled.
“No.” Came his swift reply, plunging the tips of his feathers right into the center of your armpits.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” The reaction was immediate and intense. It tickled worse than anything you’d ever felt, especially with your nerves dialed up to 11 from all the fear and buildup. The tips of those feathers had free range over your exposed pits, expertly dragged from top to bottom in a zig-zag pattern, stopping to twirl and twist in the center before a slow draaaaag up and down the length of your arm—causing you to shudder and gasp—a seconds reprieve before they returned right back to hose embarrassingly ticklish underarms, swiping madly all over. “PLHEHHEHHEASE!” You cry, not even caring about how pathetic you sound, brought to the level of begging by nothing more than a few gently caresses. Mr. Red ignored your pleas, gleefully extracting all the laughs he could from your helpless pits.
“Awwww, who’s a ticklish wittle baby?” He taunted. “Cootchie cootchie coo, little man. Does your sweet girlfriend know her big, strong boyfriend is really just a ticklish little wimp? Does she? Does she tickle you when you’ve been naughty?” You feel a hand grip your ankle firmly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. This can be our little secret. Just you, me, and my feathers.” Your shoe was removed, and a whimper escaped your lips as the sock was peeled away. “What would she think of you?” The clown continued cruelly. “I bet she’d dump you on the spot if she found out what ticklish little boy you are. You best keep your arms down around her, kid. These ticklish gold mines are just begging to be abused.”
“AHHHH!” You screeched as a new sensation attacked your body. Mr. Blue threaded a feather in between your toes, sawing back in forth in that disastrously ticklish little space, a thousand tiny bristles sending shockwaves of ticklish despair into every corner of your brain. You tried desperately to get your foot free, but it was no use. Every where you jerked, the feathers were right there with you, like homing missiles, like they were connected to you by an invisible thread. It was too much for you to handle. Sweat poured down your brow as the feathers found every crevice of your feet and pits, exploring every ticklish corner at the behest of two sadistic clowns.
“He’s a real screamer.” Mr. Blue added. “What a treat.” He grabbed your toes with his fingers, pulling back the foot for unobstructed access to the arch. His feather made the journey a few times, from heel then back to toes, lingering at the ball of your foot then scraping over top of it. Proving his point, your bellows entered a fever pitch, a high octave squeal that only the most pathetic of men could make.
“Ugh. Maybe too much of a treat. Hold up a minute.” Mr. Red commanded. They stopped their assault for a moment. It had been at most a few minutes, but even still your body slumped against your chains in exhaustion. As you breathed heavy breaths, Mr. Red took a knee and began to undo the laces on his clown shoes. Pulling out his socked foot, he looked up at you with a grin. You could only stare at him in confusion. But as he began to remove his sock and wad it up into a ball, your struggles began anew. He rose again, the sock in his hand. “Ever wonder what a clown smells like?” As the sweaty piece of cloth approached your face, you thrashed wildly, threatened, begged. This was a new level of humiliation, of fear, of disgust. Mr. Blue stood up behind you and placed a hand on either side of your face, keeping it still for the impending torture. Mr. Red pushed the sock into your face, rubbing it all around. It was wet with sweat, full of an acrid smell that made you gag. He laughed as you suffered, reveling in his complete control over your discomfort. He placed the thing over your nose and mouth, forcing you to hold your breath or be enveloped by the stench. Wise to your tricks, he left it there for 10 seconds, then twenty, then thirty. “You have to breath sometime.” He chuckled. “Don’t fight it. Just—“ He inhaled slowly. “Breeeeeaaaath it in.” After a few more moments, your lungs screaming for air, you did as you were told. A big sniff through your nose, filling it up with the musky scent of your tormentors. “That’s a good boy.” He applauded. “I’ve been wearing these all day for you. Nice and sweaty, just like you deserve.” He held it there for another minute, clearly enjoying depriving you of fresh air. After he had his fill, he continued. “All right then. Open wide, kid.” You could feel the sock trying to work its way into your mouth, causing probably the most intense wave of panic you had ever felt. You clamped your jaw shut, determined not to let that sweaty rag onto your taste buds. You screamed a muffled screamed, your mind reaching a breaking point. “Mr. Blue.” He said with a sigh. “Help our friend follow directions please.” Ten fingers attacked your armpits with a sudden ferocity. Suddenly, the assault on your pits was all you could think about, and your mouth opened wide, hollowing with laughter. In a flash, the sock was shoved deep into your mouth, the salty sweat of another man’s feet overtaking you. Equally fast, Mr. Blue abandoned your pits to strap a length of duct tape over your lips, sealing your mouth shut and the sock within it. They each took a step back, chuckling ominously as they admired their work. You hanged there, gagging as your tongue tried to make space against the sock. Tears started to well in your eyes. You had never imagined such depths of humiliation were possible. But here, at the mercy of two dominant men, your weakness had been laid bare. You had only a second to contemplate your misery before you heard commotion coming from just beyond the door. “Ah.” Mr. Red said with a smirk. “Just in time. Back to work.” The feathers started up again, pits and feet, your most sensitive areas raped by fluffy plumes. As your body started to shake and twitch uncontrollably, you wailed into your gag, your screams now appreciable muffled.
And then somehow, a bad situation got so much worse. The door flung open, and a crowd of six or seven people came through, escorted by their own gaggle of clowns. These were fellow customers, people just like you that had paid to be scared. But whatever fear they might have been feeling soon melted away as they saw you, a pitiful man dangling from the ceiling, tickled to tears with the lightest touches. They looked bewildered to see you there, almost as much as you were to see them. But soon the look of confusion dropped from their faces, replaced by smiles and laughter as the absurdity of the situation dawned on them. They walked further into the room for a closer look. It seemed somewhat mesmerizing to them, the dance of the feathers against your armpit hair, the way your slim body buckled and shook, the way your eyes pleaded. They begin to talk amongst themselves.
“Oh my god.” One girl said, covering her mouth her hand. “This guy is reaaaally ticklish. They’re like, torturing him.”
“Fuck.” Said her boyfriend. “Remind me not to piss off a clown. Is he—” He laughed. “Crying? What a baby.”
“Tickling?” Another girl chimed in. “I mean, I guess they’re allowed to touch us. Good thing I’m not ticklish!”
“I have to get this, it’s too fucking funny.” One girl pulled out her phone and started filming. “Get him!” She cried, maybe drunk, or cruel, or both. “Make him cry for me, Mr. Clown!”
More people trickled in, escorted by more clowns, and soon enough a small crowd had formed. They jeered at you, mocking your pathetic ticklishness, egging on your tormentors, and more than a few of them filmed the display. You would have been horrified at the thought of those videos being posted online, if not for the all-consuming sensation of tickling that filled your brain. Even still, you couldn’t help but notice a collection of men and women here—they hadn’t been separated like you and Claire. Why me? You thought. Was it really just because Claire tickled me? Like a spark of lightning, you suddenly remembered that your girlfriend was off somewhere, having who knows what done to her. Was she suffering the same fate, laughing hysterically at the hands of maniacal clowns? Where they shoving their socks in her mouth, exploring her armpits and feet, making her cry? As if reading your mind, Mr. Red leaned in close and whispered in your ear.
“Don’t worry about your girlfriend, by the way.” He said, feathers still brushing up and down your pits as he spoke. “We may be clowns, but we’re still gentlemen. We would never treat a lady so poorly. No, she’s getting a…let’s say, special treatment.” He shared a knowing look with Mr. Blue. “A shame I’m not on girlfriend duty tonight. She’s a pretty one, that gal of yours. If she is yours at the end of all of this, I suppose. Haven’t had one that pretty in a while. Let me give you some free advice: Fear is a pretty powerful aphrodisiac.” As you tried to wrap your head around that cryptic message, you felt your other shoe be taken off, the sock soon after. Another clown had joined the fray, wiggling his fingers with a wink. Then another approached, and another, and another, too many to count, all the clowns that had led this crowd of onlookers here. Mr. Red caught your eyes with a look of feigned surprise. “Guess we have company.” He said with a shrug. And then, they descend on you.
Feathers in your ears and nose, shoved in and out. Your shirt lifted up, a feather duster rapidly swung across your stomach. Fingers played your ribs like a piano. Each foot tickled from toe to heel with feathers and fingers. Your shirt lifted up higher still so a feather could trace the outline of your nipples. Soft bristles traversed the back of your legs, fingers traced circles in your pit hollows, makeup brushes swished across your neck, brushes, feathers, fingers, pits, feet, stomach, neck, nipples, pits, feet….the assault was endless and infinite. Every inch of your body was covered with the sensation of a thousand tiny shocks of ticklish electricity, your vision swarming with jeering clowns and the flash of cellphone cameras, your ears abuzz with taunts and humiliation as the crowd cheered for your downfall.
It went on like this for what felt like years, but in reality was at least hours. At some point, you must have lost consciousness, your one reprieve from the endless humiliation and torture. When you came too, the crowd was gone, and your wrists were unshackled. Riiiiip. The duct tap was removed, and you weekly coughed out the sweaty sock. The clowns pulled you to your feet. You batted at them weakly, but you were too exhausted to have any effect. Looping their arms under yours, they begin dragging you towards an exit. Any relief you may have felt was tempered by the occasional poke of your ribs, a finger slipping into your pit, a feather across your face. You yelped and twitched as they moved your limp body, that being all you had the energy to do. They continued to laugh and jeer as they went.
He won’t be forgetting this, eh?
Men this ticklish need to be put in their place every once and a while. I’m sure he learned from it.
How’d my socks tase, little guy? You want to take one home with you?
I hear your girlfriend had quite the enjoyable night, unlike you. Clowns can do more than tickle, you know.
Finally, mercifully, you arrived at the exit. They dumped you on a bench outside. Mr. Red stepped forward, patting you on the head. You looked up at them, the dozen jeering faces of your torturers, shuddering from fear. Mr. Red held up his fingers, wiggling them near your ribs. “Tickle tickle tickle!” He shouted. You flinched, curling yourself up into a ball with a sob. The clowns laughed uproariously, then, having their fill of sadism for one night, trickled back into the tent. Mr. Red through one last barb over his shoulder as he went. “Your lady will be out any minute, they should be done with her soon. The guys say she was real enthusiastic. Come visit us any time, my ticklish friend—I know she’ll be wanting to.” And with a wink, he was gone. You took the next half hour or so to catch your breath. When you felt ready, you stood up, shakily placing your feet beneath you. Claire. You thought desperately. Where was Claire.
After a few more minutes, she emerged. Completely disheveled, her tight bun had fallen into crumpled locks flowing down her shoulder. Her makeup was running, and she was covered in as much sweat as you were. A dazed smile was on her face, like she had just woken up from the most wonderful dream. She nearly walked right past you, so deep was her trance.
“Claire!” You shouted, limping to catch up with her. She jumped when you called her name, looking at you without a shred of recognition. After a moment, she snapped out of it.
“Babe!” She cried. “I didn’t see you there, I—I was just—“ She looked you up and down. “Are you ok?” It was strange. She had this odd vibe to her now, like she was guilty about something, like you had caught her in a place she shouldn’t be.
“I’m fine.” You lied, your voice cracking. “How are you? Did they…did they…” You trailed off.
“No! Uh, what?” She asked, feigning a smile. “It was just, you know. Scary. I was scared.” She giggled. “Pretty, um, intense stuff. They weren’t lying with the name.” She looked at you, fast awash with concern. “Babe, what happened to you? You look like you ran a marathon. What was your side like?” You tried to think of a response, but none came. What could you say? Clowns tickled me until I cried, forced my to sniff and lick their sweaty socks, and then invited a crowd in to watch me beg and squirm while they tickled me until I cried again? Some things were better left unsaid.
“Nothing. You’re right. It was scary.” You replied, numb. “Let’s go home. I’m tired.” Back in the tent, the clowns shared stories of the night.
“How was yours, Mr. Red?” One asked. “I hear he was the most ticklish guy we’ve ever had the pleasure of ruining.”
“Oh, certainly in the running.” The red clown mused. “But enough about him—tell me about the girl.” Those that had been assigned to her grinned knowingly.
“She came more times than I can count. Begged for us, one after the other. Told us to spit on her, hold her down, use her—please her in all the ways her man couldn’t. When I put my feet in her face, she nearly sucked my damn toes off. I’ll tell ya—“ He chuckled. “When we told her what he was going through, that he was being tickle-tortured while she was being fucked—she came so hard I thought she was going to pass out.” The men laughed, content that their job had been done well. “What was it she said?” He snapped his fingers. “Something like: Tickle that pathetic bitch while you fuck me like the slut I am. I’ve never met a broad so eager to cheat.”
As the men congratulated each other, Mr. Red quietly laughed to himself.
“They’ll be back. Her willing. Him, crying like a bitch the whole time.”
In the proceeding months, you noticed a significant uptick in the number of times Claire watched the movie IT. You, of course, would lock yourself in your bedroom anytime it came on. She had to pause it frequently throughout to go to the bathroom, emerging each time sweaty and with that same dazed smile. She also seemingly out interest in sex you with, as encounters of that nature decreased in proportion to her new love of clown-themed movies.. Not that you really minded; your confidence as a man was thoroughly shattered. You weren’t even sure you could get it up anymore. The memory of those feathers, socks, and laughing clown faces would be burned into your soul forever. And for Claire…well, let’s just say that when next halloween came, she bought you both VIP tickets.
The ex boyfriend:
As it turns out, finally giving into your new girlfriend’s chastity fetish may have been a bad call. She had been begging you for months, and even though it wasn’t your thing, you decided to relent. “It would only be for a few days”, she promised. “I just want to tease you a little, get you all riled up and horny so you want me even more.” You never could say no to those puppy dog eyes. So you slipped the piece of metal on with a click, and your fate was sealed. Her eyes lit up, and she pulled you in for a deep kiss. You returned it, nervous, but undeniably excited. She hung the small silver key around her neck, the symbol of her newfound power over you, and sent you away. “Thank you baby,” She purred. “We’re going to have so much fun together.” That first day wasn’t so bad. She sexted you almost constantly while you were at work, sending you pictures of those lacy red panties you bought her. Her arms stretched over her head, pushing out her chest, biting her lower lip in a display of sensuality that made you blush. Your cock strained against the tiny metal cage all day, and you could barely focus on getting any actual work done. At this point, you were so horny you were considering running off to the bathroom to jerk off—only you couldn’t, could you? She held all the power now. You had to admit, this was actually pretty hot. The powerlessness that came with not being able to pleasure yourself was already awakening something in you, a submissive side you didn’t know existed. As you grappled with that realization, each minute began to feel like hours, and with the scandalous texts from from such a beautiful woman still pouring in, punch-out time couldn’t come fast enough. You practically ran to your car once the day was over, anxious to rush home, get this thing off of you, and be duly rewarded with some kinky sex. As the key turned in the ignition, you felt the buzz in your pocket. What will it be this time? Her tits? Her legs spread wide, her fingers playing around in that perfect pussy? You greedily open the message, only to see—
—thick, black tufts of hair, outline by a massive, muscular arm.
What the fuck? Your brow furrows. You check the number the message was sent from; definitely your girlfriend’s. Why did she send me a picture of some guy’s armpit? You start to feel a little queasy. Was it a glitch? Someone else’s messages getting mixed around out there at the cell phone station? Another message rolls in:
“You shouldn’t have put that cage on. These pits are going to ruin your life .”
You drive home in a blind panic. The cock cage, a second ago feeling like a sexy little game, now is revealed for what it is: A prison. A thousand thoughts race through your mind as you fling open the front door of your apartment, still completely naive to what was going on. What you see there confirms all your worst fears. Your girlfriend is sitting on the couch grinning ear to ear, still wearing that beautiful red lace—her arm around an equally gleeful man. Your heart drops as you realize who it was. Donovan, her ex-boyfriend. You recognized him from some old pictures; six-foot-three, chiseled jaw line, an impressive muscular physique that dwarfed your own. You had always been insecure about him; he was an imposing guy, both in terms of stature and looks. She had always assured that he was nothing to worry about, that she only had eyes for you now. But with Don sitting there in your house, and her staring at him with a look of absolute lust, you were starting to feel pretty worried. You could do nothing but stare in shocked silence, mouth hanging open. She was practically draped over him, tracing little circles around his thigh with her cherry-red nails. He had one arm wrapped around her, massaging her right breast with his fingers. The other arm lay across the top of the couch, revealing the massive, hair filled pit that you had been acquainted with over the phone. They gave each other a knowing glance, quickly devolving into laughter at the look of horror on your face. She grabbed him, pulling him into a passionate kiss, one infinitely more lustful and intense than any you had ever shared with her. It all started to become clear as you notice what’s hanging around Donovan’s neck. Almost hidden amongst the tangle of black curls, was that tiny little key that your whole life now depended on.
You considered your options as your mind went into fight or flight. Your first thought was to appeal to your girlfriend. Maybe this was all a mistake, maybe he had broken in, taken the key from her, maybe she was as much a victim as you in all this. That thought quickly disappeared as she started to massage her ex’s impressive bulge through his shorts, planting gentle kisses along his neck as his dick began to grow bigger. You could try to take the key back from him by force—but the significantly bigger man would have no issue kicking your ass. The next option, flight, was seeming pretty good right about now, but this was your house after all. Where would you even go? As you numbly fumbled through all possible outcomes, each worse than the last, Donovan broke the stunned silence by explaining the reality of your new situation.
“Things are going to change around here.” He stated bluntly. “If you ever want to cum again,” He flicked the key hanging around his neck, “You’ll be a good little bitch and do as you’re told.”
He continued on, giving you all the sorry details. Sex with your girlfriend was, of course, completely off of the table. You would never again feel her touch. Donovan owned your cock now, so if you were going to cum—and that’s a mighty big if—you’d do it the way he wanted. Your girl was his now. Or rather, she had never stopped being his. You see, Don had never been the “ex” boyfriend; he’d been plowing your darling girlfriend from the start. All those late nights at work, those days she was feeling too tired to put out for you? Yeah, she’d been with Don, sucking him off and taking his cock while he planned this little ruse. There was nothing more arousing to the pair of them than to trap some helpless, pathetic man; it was so much hotter to fuck when a humiliated loser could only watch through his tears. The rush of power Don got from forcing his sweaty pits into a man’s face while he fucked someone they loved, plunging them into the depths of disgust and despair while he experienced the sexual ecstasy that they would never receive, was truly unparalleled. Your stomach dropped as you looked back to his furry underarms, starting to understand what his message had meant. You wanted to protest, to threaten to go to the cops, to stand up for yourself and kick these psychos out of your house, but somehow you already knew that it wasn’t going to happen. This man was clearly so far superior, so commanding and intense, a hundred times more masculine than you could ever be. Like a spell had been cast on you, you found yourself already resigned to the role of pit-licking cuckold. Your heart felt like it could burst as you realized that all your relationship was, all it ever was from the start, was just a ploy to get you to this very moment. “Did you really think that tiny cock deserves her?” He asked with a sneer. Your girlfriend laughed, adding that she fantasized about locking it up from the first time they had sex. That a man so pathetic should never be allowed to fuck a woman, that all he deserved was to choke on the sweat and hair of a better men. Don clearly took great pleasure in your rising humiliation, his dick now standing fully erect as feminine fingers worked their way up and down his shaft. So here was the new deal: You would debase yourself for them. You would humiliate yourself for them. You would watch them fuck in your bed, watch another man take your girlfriend’s pussy while your own pathetic cock twitched in its little cage. You would do the chores around the house while they went on romantic dates. You would pay rent while they slept in your bed and ate your home cooked meals. You would clean Don’s feet with your tongue while they cuddled on the couch and watched your favorite movies. And if you did that, if you followed every order without question, then maybe—maybe, that key could fall into your possession.
As your former woman slid the shorts down off of her lover, Donovan motioned to his thick, black tuft of armpit hair. “In short; I get pussy, you get pits. And if your face isn’t buried in here in the next five seconds, I’ll be throwing this key into a river.” It only took you one to make your decision. Your will completely destroyed in a single conversation, you made your way to the couch. As your nose made contact with the forest of sweaty hair, her lips wrap around his cock. A strong hand gripped the back of your head, forcing you in deeper, filling your nostrils with a pungent musk that would now replace the scent of a woman.
“Lick.” The command was to both you and your ex-girlfriend, and you both complied. Her, enthusiastically running her tongue over the real man’s cock, and you, choking back tears as you faced the ultimate humiliation. This was your new life: Watching another man fuck the woman you loved, while your tongue made love to his disgusting armpits. And fuck they did, for hours that night. You were stripped naked, save for the metal cage locking your inferior cock away. The difference between you and your new master were made even more plain in the absence of clothes. He was an impressive specimen, covered head to toe in rippling muscles and thick, dark hair, a large cock hanging freely between his legs. All sorts of horrible humiliations were forced upon you that night; Don’s feet smothered your face while she rode him. Her back arched in ecstasy, crying out Donovan’s name, pausing only to ask you how it felt to lick the sweat off of another man’s feet, how it felt to watch him take what was yours. You used to be a proud, strong man; now you were a cock-less foot slave. He grabbed your face, shoving it close to the pussy you’d never touch again while he rammed in and out, forcing you to kiss his massive bush as he neared orgasm. He came inside her, and she finished soon after. As they lay together in post-coital bliss, your face was again shoved back into that dreadful armpit, now full of sweat and stinking of sex. Despite the occasionally gag, you dutifully cleaned each pit with your tongue while they lay there, completely ignoring your existence. They laughed and cuddled, reminiscing about all the men they’ve conned into a similar situation, recounting the seemingly endless stories of men who’s manhood was destroyed by pits and feet. After an hour of tongue cleaning, Don mercifully pulled your face away. You were hoping to be dismissed; even a night spent crying on the couch would be preferable to another second of torment. But she had other ideas.
“He’s been so good, hasn’t he Don? Maybe the loser should get to fuck his pussy, too. He deserves a reward.” She looked at you with those doting, loving eyes, and for a moment, you had the briefest glimmer of hope. She stood up, her gorgeous naked form silhouetted against the darkness. She took a place behind you. “Arms behind your back.” She whisper, sending goosebumps up and down your spine. You felt your wrists being bound behind you, a tight knot at the wrist and elbows, precluding all movement. As she pushed you forward, your cage inching ever closer to Don’s awaiting armpit, all hope was again lost. You struggled, you begged—this was a step too far, even for you. But she only laughed sadistically as the cage made contact with his pit hairs. “Go ahead!” She cried. “Fuck your pussy, bitch!” She thrust her hips into your back, forcing your caged cock and balls to run back and forth along the soft black hair. Your begging quickly devolved into something even more pathetic—squealing laughter. Don’s tufts of hair poked their way in-between the rungs of your cage, gently brushing across your shaft in a way that tickled horribly. Worse still was your sensitive balls, completely unprotected from the thousand ticklish bristles that ran along their underside. It was the worst sensation you ever felt, your caged manhood being tortured and teased by another man’s armpit hair completely against your will. You struggled and bucked, gasping for mercy as the laughter poured out of you. The happy couple laughed along with you, and can you really blame them? It must have been a hilariously pathetic sight, watching a man squeal like a little girl while his captive manhood was tickled relentlessly. “Are you going to cum? Are you going to cum from a sweaty armpit?” She cooed. “You’re not good enough for pussy if you can’t even handle this. Say it. Say you only deserve armpits.”
And you did. They made you say it over and over, professing your inadequacy through helpless giggles as any shred of dignity you had remaining was stripped away. After they had their fill, they sent you away so they could fuck again, their libidos raised by your pathetic display of submission. As the days turned into weeks, and then months, you were treated much the same. Don got pussy, and kisses, and love, while your life consisted of pits, feet, humiliation, and ticklish prison of hair. As an hope of eventual release slowly began to leave your mind, you started to think that maybe Don was right.
Those pits really had ruined your life.
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Titles for part two, which is already in the works (and maybe part three?):
The boss
The lesbian roomate
The Bully
The Prisoner
The Swingers
The fetish model
Let me know which one you're looking forward to most.
The road trip:
You wanted the divorce in Nevada. Your pre-nuptial agreement was strong, guaranteeing an equitable distribution of assets, and Nevada courts had a good track record of allowing a newly divorced man to walk out of the courtroom with at least a few dollars to his name. Your wife, soon to be ex-wife, filed in California; a more “enlightened” state that rarely recognized pre-nups under the best of conditions. She was going to take it all from you: The house, the car, half your money, and all of your dignity. Those were the exact words she used in her last communication to you, a short text sent moments before your number was blocked. It was so like her to be vindictive and cruel, even in severing the bonds you had swore to uphold until death did you part. It was bad enough she had to cheat on you with your best friend—she wanted to ruin you as well. Your lawyers advised you not to worry; unless you were physically in California to be served papers, she would apparently have a hard time contesting your earlier filing. All you had to do was wait around a few weeks, safe in sound in your home state, while the paper work went through.
But your wife had other plans.
They hit you after work as the fatigue of the day was already heavily set in. Your focus blurry as you trudged one foot in front of the other on the long walk home, you didn’t realize what was happening until it already had. A pair of strong arms grabbed you from behind, forcing you into the backseat of a car before you could so much as blink. Your body was thrown up against another, someone you immediately recognized. It was Amanda, your wife’s best friend, the maid of honor at your wedding. She batted her eyelashes at you.
“Hello Doug. Fancy meeting you here.” You opened your mouth to reply, but were distracted by another body smushing into you from the other side. Turning to your right, you saw another familiar face: Lucy, your wife’s college roommate. A former rugby player, Lucy was 180 pounds of pure athletic muscle, with a surly attitude to match. You and she had never gotten along, and now, with her massive frame pinning you into Amanda, you started to feel a sense of foreboding dread. Without any further introduction, Lucy gripped your wrist hard, yanking your arm above your head and inserting it into the carseat headrest to your right. Click. She pushed the thing down, firmly locking your wrist in place. To your horror, the thing wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard you pulled. Amanda jockeyed for the other wrist, but not having the same raw strength as the other woman, you were able to fight her off, now fully panicking as the reality of the situation set in. The two women just laughed as you struggled, treating this as a fun game between friends as you fought for your life. Lucy leaned across you, pressing her elbow into your stomach. The air knocked out of you, Amanda could easily bind your left arm as well, similarly locking it in place with the other headrest. As you flailed and tried to free you arms, they finished their work. Each woman grabbed a kicking leg, stripping off your shoes, then your socks, before inserting the now naked foot into the driver’s and passengers headrest, finalizing your immobility. And immobile you were; spread eagle in the car, each limb tied to a different car seat, pulling your body in four directions as the two cackling women sandwiched you from both sides. You began to swear, to scream, to struggle, asking them what the fuck they thought they were doing, telling them that you’d go to the cops, that you’d never get away with this. They only taunted you in response.
“Oh yeah, tough guy?” Lucy cooed. “What are you going to do? You gonna kick my ass?”
“I wouldn’t be making threats, Doug. A man in your position is a little too—“ She untucked your dress shirt, unbuttoning it from the bottom up.”—exposed.” She whispered the last word in your ear, sending goosebumps down your spine. You indeed were starting to feel exposed, with Amanda unclasping the last button and letting you shirt hang open. Your bare chest hung there in the open air, with the feeling of violation worsened still as she pulled the shirt down over your shoulders. You were now effectively topless, your hairy chest, stomach, and armpits now completely exposed. Your threats soon turned to whimpers, eyeing the two deviously grinning women with fear. But of course, it was about to get, much, much worse. The driver’s doors opened, and two more people entered the vehicle. IN the driver’s seat was Mark; a tall, handsome fellow, formerly your best friend and now your wife’s lover. He turned back to greet you, that same cheery smile he always wore, the same deceitful grin he had been giving you during all those months he was fucking your wife behind your back.
You hated that smile.
“Hey buddy.” He said, nonchalant. “Been a while since we went on a road trip, huh? Feels just like old times.” He gave your bare foot a pat, causing you to twitch. Even that slightest of touches was enough to tickle you, a sensation that Mark knew you despised. The second new arrival was your wife. She took her place in the passenger seat, immediately drawing Mark into a deep kiss. The jealousy and humiliation you felt was only overshadowed by your fear. Your wife turned back to you, a look of disgust and hate plastered on her face.
“Well, my loser of a soon-to-be ex-husband, I hope you brought some snacks.” She smiled lovingly at Mark. “Cause we’re going to California.”
The car peeled out of the parking lot, heading towards the highway at 70 miles per hour. It was a brilliant plan on their part, even you had to admit. Husband won’t agree to a fork over half his stuff in the divorce? Need to get him to California to collect the nuptial tidings you know you deserve? No problem! Just pack him up into a car, take him there against his will, and let the law do the rest. All you need is two gal-pals (helps if one of them is rugby player that could fold your loser ex in half), the new, better man you’re replacing him with, and a set of wheels. After that it’s just a…what? Six hour drive to LA? Of course, with a drive that long, you’ll need some entertainment. As soon as the car marked onto the highway, you felt a horrible sensation on your right foot. Your wife was shaking her head back and forth, gently brushing her thick, black bob cut along the underside of your foot. You tried to fight the sensation, the giggles choked back in your throat, but her hair was relentless, flipping and flopping constantly over the length of your sole, covering every inch in that silky-soft hair that you found so attractive. Any hope of holding out disappeared when Mark joined in. He rested his buzz cut on your left foot, rocking it up and down with slow precision. The feeling of a thousand sharp bristles scraping across your sole sent you into hysterics. Each foot was in a different world—the right; a fluffy, soft prison of hair, the left; a hell of sharp scratching bristles. You thrashed wildly, much to the delight of your kidnappers. It was such a simple weakness to exploit; they were driving you insane just by moving their heads a little. Mark had been the one to tell her of your secret weakness, having used it himself to torment you when you mere high school students. Throughout your marriage, your wife had always tickled you whenever she didn’t get her way. Didn’t do the dishes? She’d tickle your feet until those pans were spotless. Got into an argument? She’d slip in her fingers into your armpits right there in the middle of crowded restaurant, wiggling them around until you loudly admitted she was right. Tickles when you annoyed her, tickles when you didn’t, tickles when she had a bad day at work and just wanted to blow off some steam. It was part of the reason why you were so eager to secure that divorce, cheating not-withstanding. To your wife, it felt like karmic retribution that she would now be tickling you all the way to divorce court; she was going to get what was hers, and you had to take what was coming to you.
The tickling on your feet was bad enough, but it was only half the story. Mere seconds after the assault on your feet began, Lucy and Amanda joined in on the fun. Amanda took a soft approach, gently running her nails over your exposed upper body. Her meticulously manicured nails traced little circles in your pits, fluttered down to your stomach, traced over your happy trail and dipped into your belly button, skittered over your nipples and chest, back and forth from place to place, never spending more than a few seconds in each horribly ticklish target. Lucy took a different approach, slipping a full five fingers into your right pit, clawing at it with wild abandon. Her free hand traveled to your ribs, where she squeezed relentlessly. It was the same juxtaposition your feet were being subjected to—one tortuously soft, the other hard and unrelenting. It had the effect of keeping you from becoming used to any one sensation; the second hard tickles ceased to torture you, soft ones took their place, back and forth, an endless cycle of torment that had you wailing for mercy in minutes. But as the minutes turned to hours, your voice began to give out. Soon enough, you could only gasp between bouts of laughter, hoarsely muttering please, please no.They didn’t stop, of course; the point was to make you suffer.
The difference in tickling styles reflected the two women’s attitude towards you in general. Amanda was only here to be a good friend. The fact that she got to torment a helpless guy with some tickling was just an added bonus; it’s not everyday that you get to let out your inner sadist, and she secretly found the whole situation to be quite arousing. This is the kind of thing she had only ever fantasized about doing, and it turned her on to no end that the very man who had taken your wife from you was now the architect of your humiliation. She privately admitted to herself that she may have something of a cuckold fetish—cucking by proxy, maybe? All she knew was, it was fucking hot to make a man cry in front of his wife and new boyfriend. There was a certain sensuality to the way she stroked your armpits, almost the same way she would a lover’s cock, like she was milking pleasure out of them. She tormented you with a lustful compassion, gently cooing in your ears all the while: Cootchie coo, baby. Awwww, who’s a ticklish wittle guy? How does this feel? Do you like my tickly fingies in your pits? Laugh for me darling, keep laughing and begging. Lucy, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, just actually fucking hated you. She hated how much you and your wife argued, hated that you monopolized her time even back then in college, and most of all, hated how un-manly and wimpy you had always been. That had been the source of much of your mutual dislike; Lucy just never thought that you deserved to be with anyone, much less her best friend. So as she tickled you relentlessly, it was to inflict maximum torture, the utmost suffering she could while she had you here at her mercy. Eventually, she stopped tickling you all together, opting for something even worse. You had made a comment years ago, one that you had forgotten, but Lucy had most assuredly not. When she would come back to the dorm after rugby practice, covered in sweat and grime, you’d wrinkle your nose and complain about the smell. She’d usually respond by throwing her sweaty jersey and socks at you, which disgusted you to no end. It all came to a head when you demanded she take a shower if she was going to be around you. It had started an argument then, one that you probably lost, but now Lucy was going to make sure you really lost.
While Amanda continued to torment your upper body, and hair danced in between your toes, Lucy reached a hand into her own armpit. When it emerged, it was covered in her sweat. She smeared it all over your face, even dipping her fingers into your wide open mouth. You gagged as the scent of it filled your nostrils, the thick, womanly scent of this angry, vengeful athlete. She kept going, adding more sweat to your face, mocking you all the while.
“Still think I stink?” She yelled. “Well now you stink, too. You smell like my fucking armpits, loser. How do they tase, bitch?” She opted for a more direct approach, grabbing the back of your head and completely enveloping your nose and mouth in her large, muscular underarm. “Lick me clean, you fucking pussy. Lick me clean or I’ll stop this car and go for a fucking run in this heat. Lick!” There was literally nothing else in this entire world that you would rather do less. You would rather be tickled for the rest of your life than debase yourself like this, than makeout with the unbearable stench that had always disgusted you. But you did it anyway. You ran your tongue over her stubble, through every crease and fold on the pit that held your face hostage. What else could you do? You were trapped. Helpless. Completely at their mercy. Lucy felt on top of the world, easily dominating the man who had cruelly insulted her all those years ago. It was vengeance at its most sweet. Amanda was practically dizzy from arousal at this point. Her mind was filled with horrible fantasies, each more depraved than the last. How far can we push this? She thought, practically nearing an orgasm. We could make him our slave. Tie him up and the basement and tickle him for days on end. What if I tickled him while Mark fucked his wife? We could lock him in a chastity cage—deny him an orgasm unless he’s licking Lucy’s sweat. He probably wouldn’t even be able to get it up! We could train him, make him associate armpits with arousal, turn him from a man into a pit-sniffing tickle-cuck! Oh god…this is so fucking hot. I want to keep this pathetic little slut as a pet! She couldn’t help herself; she would need this on video. She took out her phone, recording your forced pit-worship with an interest bordering on obsession. You hardly noticed that she had stopped tickling you, your entire mind now consumed with Lucy’s stench. On and on it went, switching from tickling to pit-licking, to Lucy holding her workout shoes over your nose, to shoving her sweaty socks in your mouth; from Amanda catching your worst moments on tape, to returning to the fun herself, setting your own pits ablaze with ticklish torment whenever she felt like you were getting it too easy. The hours counted down, but for you it might as well have been decades.
All the while, your wife and her lover ignored your existence, save for the swishing of their hair against your soles, occasionally running a finger or two down them when they got bored. They looked at each other lovingly, planning out their honeymoon. They’d get a hefty chunk of your money once the divorce went through; is Fiji nice this time of year? What were they thinking—Fiji is nice year-round. They were ecstatic. Young and in love, a bright future ahead of them, with their stormy past currently begging for mercy in the backseat. Hour five rolled around, then five and half. They were getting close to the border. She gave a signal, and the two woman in the backseat reluctantly stopped. Lucy pulled her armpit off of your face; Amanda ceased blowing raspberries on your stomach.
“Let me explain how this is going to go down.” Your wife said placidly. “We’ll give you a few minutes to get your shit together. We walk in, you sign where I need you to sign, and then we’re back in the car and headed home. You may be thinking of backing out, or of contacting the police, or some other nonsense.” She turned over her shoulder to glare you down. “If you do that, Amanda will send those videos to everyone that you know. Your boss. Your family. Your friends. She’ll post it to femdom porn sites, send it to ex-girlfriends; everyone will get to watch how much you love armpits and tickles. You’ll never be able to go anywhere without the shame following you.” She traced her nails across your toes, eliciting a pitiful yelp fro you. “Plus, on the ride back home, we’ll film you doing even worse things. Maybe Mark will take a turn in the backseat, if you catch my drift?”
Holy shit. Thought Amanda. I’m totally going to post those videos anyway. Can you imagine? Everyone in his life knowing what a submissive little ***** he is? As Amanda fantasized about ruining your life, Mark chimed in.
“You better do what she says, pal.” He added. “I’d hate to make you lick my armpits, tickle you until you piss yourself, force you to suck my cock, you know, etc etc. But our hands are kind of tied here, what with you trying to file in Nevada and all.”
“Uh, maybe we should just do that!” Amanda said excitedly. “Like, right now! Just to be safe, I mean. Let’s pull over. Lucy, you can switch with Mark, right?” Your wife just laughed.
“Easy there, girly. Let the man make up his mind first”. She replied, much to your relief. “If you’re good, I’ll only let them tickle you for half the ride home, ok? Best deal you’re going to get.” There wasn’t much of a decision to be made. As you crossed state lines, it played out exactly as she had laid out. They marched you to the nearest courthouse, and just like that, you’d signed your life away. The pre-nup? Gone. Your house? Hers now. Half your money? Wire would be through in just a few days. Your mind was a numb, tingling mess as they ushered you pack to the car. You didn’t even put up a fight as they locked you back into place, such was the extent of your despair. They cheered and hollered as you pulled back onto the highway—it would be a long trip home, but at least they had the world’s greatest entertainment system to keep them company. At least you would only be tormented for three hours, instead of six, right?
“About that…” Your now ex-wife said with a smirk. “It was a lie. Sorry.” She stuck out her tongue playfully. All hope completely left you, the death sentence of another six hours of hell too much to bear. You started to cry as Lucy raised her arms above her head, as Amanda readied her fingers to re-enter your tingling armpits. You made one last desperate plea.
“Baby, please.” You choked out through sobs. “If you ever loved, ever cared about me…just make them leave me alone on the trip back. I was good, I-I did what you asked…”
“Love?” She snorted. “What, Doug? This doesn’t feel like love?” She brushed her hair over your soles, a slow, deliberate drag from heel to toe. You screeched and bucked as she laughed. “This is the only kind of love you’ll ever feel. Be happy I’m even touching you. How about this.” She resumed the shaking of her head, as did Mark, the scratchy-soft horrors washing over you anew. “If you agree to come to our wedding—its June 12th, by the way, save the date—I won’t have Mark come back there to get his cock sucked on film. Deal? We’ll put you in a room right next to ours. That way you can hear us fucking while Lucy uses you as a sweat rag.” And with that, they descended on you. Lucy, enacting her revenge. Amanda, playing out her sickest fantasies, already plotting to make you hers. And your ex-wife and best friend, happy together, now the proud owners of half your net worth, both of your feet, and all of your dignity.
It was going to be a long ride.
The haunted house:
Fright Town: Extreme Haunted House. It wasn’t exactly your thing—you were more the rollercoaster type guy as far as thrill seeking was concerned. But your girlfriend had insisted, and so here you were. The gimmick here was the “extreme” part, with the actors being allowed to touch you, something that was normally off limits. You still couldn’t touch them of course, but apparently they were allowed to push you around, lightly grab your hair, splash you with water and fake blood, that kind of thing. The idea didn’t particularly appeal to you, but your girlfriend Claire was something of a horror junkie, so you put on your least-valued tank top and took her. Screams and maniacal laughter echoed through the house as you waited in line. As group after group had their tickets examined, they were led through the dark hallway into the haunted house. It wasn’t exactly a house, though. The whole theme of the place was a haunted carnival, and so what lay before you was closer to an over-sized circus tent. The line got shorter and shorter, and soon enough, it was your turn to enter. A grim looking clown, blood covering his fake sharpened teeth, reached out a gloved hand for your tickets. He stared unblinkingly at you, and you had to admit to a certain degree of nerves as you handed them over. Your girlfriend, perhaps sensing your apprehension, jabbed her fingers into your ribs.
“Ah!” You shouted, batting her hands away. She just grinned impishly up at you. She knew you hated being tickled, so she naturally it was her favorite way to get under your skin.
“Someone’s a little scaaaared.” She teased. The clown let out a low chuckle.
“I’m not scared.” You huffed. “Clowns are just kind of lame, if you ask me.” You swear the ticketing-clown got a glint in his eye when you said that.
“Have fun.” He rasped. “Little man.” You glance sideways at the little man comment, but your girlfriend just giggles, grabbing your hand and leading you into the dark. You stumbled through the first hallway, jumping a little as clown animatronics jumped out at you from the shadows. Your girlfriend was truly in her element, letting out a shriek of fear and joy every time. It was a pretty standard experience; everyone and a while an actor would jump out brandishing a chainsaw or butcher knife, yelling some nonsense only tangentially related to clowns or halloween. It was alright, you thought. Not exactly extreme thus far, but that was fine by you. After a few minutes, you approach a fork in the path. Two blood-splattered doors, each leading off to who knows where. A dimly lit sign flickers to life above each entrance: One reads Ladies, while the other says gents.
“Oh.” She says quizzically. “I guess we’re supposed to split up?” You’re about to protest—you came here together, after all. But without warning, clowns burst out of each door. Two of them take your girlfriend gently by the hands.
“Right this way, miss.” They say, grinning with creepy smiles. “Plenty of fun this way.” The other two grab you much more harshly, gripping your shoulders and wrists tight and ushering you towards the gents door. “You’re coming with us, little man.” They growled, getting uncomfortable close to your face. “You’ll be lucky to make it out of here in one piece!” You start trying to shake them off, but your girlfriend is laughing with glee, and already accompanying her escorts through the door.
“We’ll meet up at the end!” She cried over her shoulder. “Just go with it!” And just like that, she was gone. So, you reluctantly allow your captors to take you through your door as well. They drag you through a dimly lit hallway, then around a corner, then another, then another, all the while continuing with their threats of violence, ruffling your hair, pinching your cheeks, assuring you that this would be the last time you walked the earth. It wasn’t scary, so much as annoying, but you had to admit that you were getting disoriented in the maze of strobe-lighted hallways that this tent was seemingly composed of. Eventually, the clowns release you into a darkroom. A spotlight turns on, illuminating two metal chains hanging from the ceiling, shackles at their base. One of them steps behind you, while the other walks forward towards the chains. He beckons you forward. After a moment of hesitation, you comply. Without warning, both clowns grab your wrists, thrusting them above your head towards the manacles. You wrench you hands away from them.
“What the fuck?!” You cry. “You’re not tying me up.” This was not in the brochure.
“Our rules, kid.” One of the clowns says sternly. “No touching the actors. If you resist again, you and your girlfriend are getting kicked out—got it?” You sighed. If you were the reason Claire got kicked out of this place, you’d be sleeping on the couch for weeks. So reluctantly, you let the clowns do their work. Click, click. The two shackles were locked into place. You gave them a cursory tug, but they held firm. One of the clowns tugged on winch near your feet. Ca-chunk. Your arms straightened as the bonds were drawn closer to the ceiling. They were now completely taught, and you were even pulled onto your tip-toes. Almost involuntarily, you began to struggle.
“Ah!” You cried out. “These are a little tight, guys.” The clowns only chuckled in response. Huh. You thought. I guess this is the extreme part. One of the clowns, a fellow dressed in all red, circled in front of you while the other ducked out of your view. You struggled to turn and watch where he was going, but your bondage didn’t allow for much movement. Your stress levels were actually starting to rise as the red clown got closer.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here.” He grinned sinisterly. “You can call me Mr. Red. That over there is Mr. Blue. You know, I had a word with the front desk. A little birdy told me that youuuuu.” He put his face a mere inch from yours. “Have a little secret.” He whispered. “A rather embarrassing one at that, I might add.” You felt a pit form in your stomach. “He tells me that you—“ He produced two fluffy, red feathers from his waistband. “Are a ticklish little man. Is that right?” His grin grew wider as he saw the fear in your eyes.
“W-wait!” You cried, as panic started to set in. “I don’t want to be—eeh!” Your protests are cut short as the feathers begin to lightly trace down your arm.
“Uh-oh.” Mr. Red sneered. “Looks like the rumors were true. Bad luck for you, boy—“ The feathers slid quickly past your elbow, causing your whole body to jerk. “And great luck for us.” The feathers continued their descent towards the hollows of your underarm, stretched so taught above your head and only scarcely protected by a smattering of the brown hair. You started to struggle, but you weren’t going anywhere. You were having a full blown panic attack now. You hated being tickled, really, truly hated it, and it was made infinitely worse by the sudden realization that A) Clowns were not lame, and B) you were kind of afraid of them. The feathers closed in on your pits with increasing speed, like a count down clock to your destruction. You knew, and judging nay your reactions, Mr. Red knew as well, that the second your hollows were entered it would be all over for you.
“Please…” You squealed, tears in your eyes. “Don’t.” Mr. Red just smiled.
“No.” Came his swift reply, plunging the tips of his feathers right into the center of your armpits.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” The reaction was immediate and intense. It tickled worse than anything you’d ever felt, especially with your nerves dialed up to 11 from all the fear and buildup. The tips of those feathers had free range over your exposed pits, expertly dragged from top to bottom in a zig-zag pattern, stopping to twirl and twist in the center before a slow draaaaag up and down the length of your arm—causing you to shudder and gasp—a seconds reprieve before they returned right back to hose embarrassingly ticklish underarms, swiping madly all over. “PLHEHHEHHEASE!” You cry, not even caring about how pathetic you sound, brought to the level of begging by nothing more than a few gently caresses. Mr. Red ignored your pleas, gleefully extracting all the laughs he could from your helpless pits.
“Awwww, who’s a ticklish wittle baby?” He taunted. “Cootchie cootchie coo, little man. Does your sweet girlfriend know her big, strong boyfriend is really just a ticklish little wimp? Does she? Does she tickle you when you’ve been naughty?” You feel a hand grip your ankle firmly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. This can be our little secret. Just you, me, and my feathers.” Your shoe was removed, and a whimper escaped your lips as the sock was peeled away. “What would she think of you?” The clown continued cruelly. “I bet she’d dump you on the spot if she found out what ticklish little boy you are. You best keep your arms down around her, kid. These ticklish gold mines are just begging to be abused.”
“AHHHH!” You screeched as a new sensation attacked your body. Mr. Blue threaded a feather in between your toes, sawing back in forth in that disastrously ticklish little space, a thousand tiny bristles sending shockwaves of ticklish despair into every corner of your brain. You tried desperately to get your foot free, but it was no use. Every where you jerked, the feathers were right there with you, like homing missiles, like they were connected to you by an invisible thread. It was too much for you to handle. Sweat poured down your brow as the feathers found every crevice of your feet and pits, exploring every ticklish corner at the behest of two sadistic clowns.
“He’s a real screamer.” Mr. Blue added. “What a treat.” He grabbed your toes with his fingers, pulling back the foot for unobstructed access to the arch. His feather made the journey a few times, from heel then back to toes, lingering at the ball of your foot then scraping over top of it. Proving his point, your bellows entered a fever pitch, a high octave squeal that only the most pathetic of men could make.
“Ugh. Maybe too much of a treat. Hold up a minute.” Mr. Red commanded. They stopped their assault for a moment. It had been at most a few minutes, but even still your body slumped against your chains in exhaustion. As you breathed heavy breaths, Mr. Red took a knee and began to undo the laces on his clown shoes. Pulling out his socked foot, he looked up at you with a grin. You could only stare at him in confusion. But as he began to remove his sock and wad it up into a ball, your struggles began anew. He rose again, the sock in his hand. “Ever wonder what a clown smells like?” As the sweaty piece of cloth approached your face, you thrashed wildly, threatened, begged. This was a new level of humiliation, of fear, of disgust. Mr. Blue stood up behind you and placed a hand on either side of your face, keeping it still for the impending torture. Mr. Red pushed the sock into your face, rubbing it all around. It was wet with sweat, full of an acrid smell that made you gag. He laughed as you suffered, reveling in his complete control over your discomfort. He placed the thing over your nose and mouth, forcing you to hold your breath or be enveloped by the stench. Wise to your tricks, he left it there for 10 seconds, then twenty, then thirty. “You have to breath sometime.” He chuckled. “Don’t fight it. Just—“ He inhaled slowly. “Breeeeeaaaath it in.” After a few more moments, your lungs screaming for air, you did as you were told. A big sniff through your nose, filling it up with the musky scent of your tormentors. “That’s a good boy.” He applauded. “I’ve been wearing these all day for you. Nice and sweaty, just like you deserve.” He held it there for another minute, clearly enjoying depriving you of fresh air. After he had his fill, he continued. “All right then. Open wide, kid.” You could feel the sock trying to work its way into your mouth, causing probably the most intense wave of panic you had ever felt. You clamped your jaw shut, determined not to let that sweaty rag onto your taste buds. You screamed a muffled screamed, your mind reaching a breaking point. “Mr. Blue.” He said with a sigh. “Help our friend follow directions please.” Ten fingers attacked your armpits with a sudden ferocity. Suddenly, the assault on your pits was all you could think about, and your mouth opened wide, hollowing with laughter. In a flash, the sock was shoved deep into your mouth, the salty sweat of another man’s feet overtaking you. Equally fast, Mr. Blue abandoned your pits to strap a length of duct tape over your lips, sealing your mouth shut and the sock within it. They each took a step back, chuckling ominously as they admired their work. You hanged there, gagging as your tongue tried to make space against the sock. Tears started to well in your eyes. You had never imagined such depths of humiliation were possible. But here, at the mercy of two dominant men, your weakness had been laid bare. You had only a second to contemplate your misery before you heard commotion coming from just beyond the door. “Ah.” Mr. Red said with a smirk. “Just in time. Back to work.” The feathers started up again, pits and feet, your most sensitive areas raped by fluffy plumes. As your body started to shake and twitch uncontrollably, you wailed into your gag, your screams now appreciable muffled.
And then somehow, a bad situation got so much worse. The door flung open, and a crowd of six or seven people came through, escorted by their own gaggle of clowns. These were fellow customers, people just like you that had paid to be scared. But whatever fear they might have been feeling soon melted away as they saw you, a pitiful man dangling from the ceiling, tickled to tears with the lightest touches. They looked bewildered to see you there, almost as much as you were to see them. But soon the look of confusion dropped from their faces, replaced by smiles and laughter as the absurdity of the situation dawned on them. They walked further into the room for a closer look. It seemed somewhat mesmerizing to them, the dance of the feathers against your armpit hair, the way your slim body buckled and shook, the way your eyes pleaded. They begin to talk amongst themselves.
“Oh my god.” One girl said, covering her mouth her hand. “This guy is reaaaally ticklish. They’re like, torturing him.”
“Fuck.” Said her boyfriend. “Remind me not to piss off a clown. Is he—” He laughed. “Crying? What a baby.”
“Tickling?” Another girl chimed in. “I mean, I guess they’re allowed to touch us. Good thing I’m not ticklish!”
“I have to get this, it’s too fucking funny.” One girl pulled out her phone and started filming. “Get him!” She cried, maybe drunk, or cruel, or both. “Make him cry for me, Mr. Clown!”
More people trickled in, escorted by more clowns, and soon enough a small crowd had formed. They jeered at you, mocking your pathetic ticklishness, egging on your tormentors, and more than a few of them filmed the display. You would have been horrified at the thought of those videos being posted online, if not for the all-consuming sensation of tickling that filled your brain. Even still, you couldn’t help but notice a collection of men and women here—they hadn’t been separated like you and Claire. Why me? You thought. Was it really just because Claire tickled me? Like a spark of lightning, you suddenly remembered that your girlfriend was off somewhere, having who knows what done to her. Was she suffering the same fate, laughing hysterically at the hands of maniacal clowns? Where they shoving their socks in her mouth, exploring her armpits and feet, making her cry? As if reading your mind, Mr. Red leaned in close and whispered in your ear.
“Don’t worry about your girlfriend, by the way.” He said, feathers still brushing up and down your pits as he spoke. “We may be clowns, but we’re still gentlemen. We would never treat a lady so poorly. No, she’s getting a…let’s say, special treatment.” He shared a knowing look with Mr. Blue. “A shame I’m not on girlfriend duty tonight. She’s a pretty one, that gal of yours. If she is yours at the end of all of this, I suppose. Haven’t had one that pretty in a while. Let me give you some free advice: Fear is a pretty powerful aphrodisiac.” As you tried to wrap your head around that cryptic message, you felt your other shoe be taken off, the sock soon after. Another clown had joined the fray, wiggling his fingers with a wink. Then another approached, and another, and another, too many to count, all the clowns that had led this crowd of onlookers here. Mr. Red caught your eyes with a look of feigned surprise. “Guess we have company.” He said with a shrug. And then, they descend on you.
Feathers in your ears and nose, shoved in and out. Your shirt lifted up, a feather duster rapidly swung across your stomach. Fingers played your ribs like a piano. Each foot tickled from toe to heel with feathers and fingers. Your shirt lifted up higher still so a feather could trace the outline of your nipples. Soft bristles traversed the back of your legs, fingers traced circles in your pit hollows, makeup brushes swished across your neck, brushes, feathers, fingers, pits, feet, stomach, neck, nipples, pits, feet….the assault was endless and infinite. Every inch of your body was covered with the sensation of a thousand tiny shocks of ticklish electricity, your vision swarming with jeering clowns and the flash of cellphone cameras, your ears abuzz with taunts and humiliation as the crowd cheered for your downfall.
It went on like this for what felt like years, but in reality was at least hours. At some point, you must have lost consciousness, your one reprieve from the endless humiliation and torture. When you came too, the crowd was gone, and your wrists were unshackled. Riiiiip. The duct tap was removed, and you weekly coughed out the sweaty sock. The clowns pulled you to your feet. You batted at them weakly, but you were too exhausted to have any effect. Looping their arms under yours, they begin dragging you towards an exit. Any relief you may have felt was tempered by the occasional poke of your ribs, a finger slipping into your pit, a feather across your face. You yelped and twitched as they moved your limp body, that being all you had the energy to do. They continued to laugh and jeer as they went.
He won’t be forgetting this, eh?
Men this ticklish need to be put in their place every once and a while. I’m sure he learned from it.
How’d my socks tase, little guy? You want to take one home with you?
I hear your girlfriend had quite the enjoyable night, unlike you. Clowns can do more than tickle, you know.
Finally, mercifully, you arrived at the exit. They dumped you on a bench outside. Mr. Red stepped forward, patting you on the head. You looked up at them, the dozen jeering faces of your torturers, shuddering from fear. Mr. Red held up his fingers, wiggling them near your ribs. “Tickle tickle tickle!” He shouted. You flinched, curling yourself up into a ball with a sob. The clowns laughed uproariously, then, having their fill of sadism for one night, trickled back into the tent. Mr. Red through one last barb over his shoulder as he went. “Your lady will be out any minute, they should be done with her soon. The guys say she was real enthusiastic. Come visit us any time, my ticklish friend—I know she’ll be wanting to.” And with a wink, he was gone. You took the next half hour or so to catch your breath. When you felt ready, you stood up, shakily placing your feet beneath you. Claire. You thought desperately. Where was Claire.
After a few more minutes, she emerged. Completely disheveled, her tight bun had fallen into crumpled locks flowing down her shoulder. Her makeup was running, and she was covered in as much sweat as you were. A dazed smile was on her face, like she had just woken up from the most wonderful dream. She nearly walked right past you, so deep was her trance.
“Claire!” You shouted, limping to catch up with her. She jumped when you called her name, looking at you without a shred of recognition. After a moment, she snapped out of it.
“Babe!” She cried. “I didn’t see you there, I—I was just—“ She looked you up and down. “Are you ok?” It was strange. She had this odd vibe to her now, like she was guilty about something, like you had caught her in a place she shouldn’t be.
“I’m fine.” You lied, your voice cracking. “How are you? Did they…did they…” You trailed off.
“No! Uh, what?” She asked, feigning a smile. “It was just, you know. Scary. I was scared.” She giggled. “Pretty, um, intense stuff. They weren’t lying with the name.” She looked at you, fast awash with concern. “Babe, what happened to you? You look like you ran a marathon. What was your side like?” You tried to think of a response, but none came. What could you say? Clowns tickled me until I cried, forced my to sniff and lick their sweaty socks, and then invited a crowd in to watch me beg and squirm while they tickled me until I cried again? Some things were better left unsaid.
“Nothing. You’re right. It was scary.” You replied, numb. “Let’s go home. I’m tired.” Back in the tent, the clowns shared stories of the night.
“How was yours, Mr. Red?” One asked. “I hear he was the most ticklish guy we’ve ever had the pleasure of ruining.”
“Oh, certainly in the running.” The red clown mused. “But enough about him—tell me about the girl.” Those that had been assigned to her grinned knowingly.
“She came more times than I can count. Begged for us, one after the other. Told us to spit on her, hold her down, use her—please her in all the ways her man couldn’t. When I put my feet in her face, she nearly sucked my damn toes off. I’ll tell ya—“ He chuckled. “When we told her what he was going through, that he was being tickle-tortured while she was being fucked—she came so hard I thought she was going to pass out.” The men laughed, content that their job had been done well. “What was it she said?” He snapped his fingers. “Something like: Tickle that pathetic bitch while you fuck me like the slut I am. I’ve never met a broad so eager to cheat.”
As the men congratulated each other, Mr. Red quietly laughed to himself.
“They’ll be back. Her willing. Him, crying like a bitch the whole time.”
In the proceeding months, you noticed a significant uptick in the number of times Claire watched the movie IT. You, of course, would lock yourself in your bedroom anytime it came on. She had to pause it frequently throughout to go to the bathroom, emerging each time sweaty and with that same dazed smile. She also seemingly out interest in sex you with, as encounters of that nature decreased in proportion to her new love of clown-themed movies.. Not that you really minded; your confidence as a man was thoroughly shattered. You weren’t even sure you could get it up anymore. The memory of those feathers, socks, and laughing clown faces would be burned into your soul forever. And for Claire…well, let’s just say that when next halloween came, she bought you both VIP tickets.
The ex boyfriend:
As it turns out, finally giving into your new girlfriend’s chastity fetish may have been a bad call. She had been begging you for months, and even though it wasn’t your thing, you decided to relent. “It would only be for a few days”, she promised. “I just want to tease you a little, get you all riled up and horny so you want me even more.” You never could say no to those puppy dog eyes. So you slipped the piece of metal on with a click, and your fate was sealed. Her eyes lit up, and she pulled you in for a deep kiss. You returned it, nervous, but undeniably excited. She hung the small silver key around her neck, the symbol of her newfound power over you, and sent you away. “Thank you baby,” She purred. “We’re going to have so much fun together.” That first day wasn’t so bad. She sexted you almost constantly while you were at work, sending you pictures of those lacy red panties you bought her. Her arms stretched over her head, pushing out her chest, biting her lower lip in a display of sensuality that made you blush. Your cock strained against the tiny metal cage all day, and you could barely focus on getting any actual work done. At this point, you were so horny you were considering running off to the bathroom to jerk off—only you couldn’t, could you? She held all the power now. You had to admit, this was actually pretty hot. The powerlessness that came with not being able to pleasure yourself was already awakening something in you, a submissive side you didn’t know existed. As you grappled with that realization, each minute began to feel like hours, and with the scandalous texts from from such a beautiful woman still pouring in, punch-out time couldn’t come fast enough. You practically ran to your car once the day was over, anxious to rush home, get this thing off of you, and be duly rewarded with some kinky sex. As the key turned in the ignition, you felt the buzz in your pocket. What will it be this time? Her tits? Her legs spread wide, her fingers playing around in that perfect pussy? You greedily open the message, only to see—
—thick, black tufts of hair, outline by a massive, muscular arm.
What the fuck? Your brow furrows. You check the number the message was sent from; definitely your girlfriend’s. Why did she send me a picture of some guy’s armpit? You start to feel a little queasy. Was it a glitch? Someone else’s messages getting mixed around out there at the cell phone station? Another message rolls in:
“You shouldn’t have put that cage on. These pits are going to ruin your life .”
You drive home in a blind panic. The cock cage, a second ago feeling like a sexy little game, now is revealed for what it is: A prison. A thousand thoughts race through your mind as you fling open the front door of your apartment, still completely naive to what was going on. What you see there confirms all your worst fears. Your girlfriend is sitting on the couch grinning ear to ear, still wearing that beautiful red lace—her arm around an equally gleeful man. Your heart drops as you realize who it was. Donovan, her ex-boyfriend. You recognized him from some old pictures; six-foot-three, chiseled jaw line, an impressive muscular physique that dwarfed your own. You had always been insecure about him; he was an imposing guy, both in terms of stature and looks. She had always assured that he was nothing to worry about, that she only had eyes for you now. But with Don sitting there in your house, and her staring at him with a look of absolute lust, you were starting to feel pretty worried. You could do nothing but stare in shocked silence, mouth hanging open. She was practically draped over him, tracing little circles around his thigh with her cherry-red nails. He had one arm wrapped around her, massaging her right breast with his fingers. The other arm lay across the top of the couch, revealing the massive, hair filled pit that you had been acquainted with over the phone. They gave each other a knowing glance, quickly devolving into laughter at the look of horror on your face. She grabbed him, pulling him into a passionate kiss, one infinitely more lustful and intense than any you had ever shared with her. It all started to become clear as you notice what’s hanging around Donovan’s neck. Almost hidden amongst the tangle of black curls, was that tiny little key that your whole life now depended on.
You considered your options as your mind went into fight or flight. Your first thought was to appeal to your girlfriend. Maybe this was all a mistake, maybe he had broken in, taken the key from her, maybe she was as much a victim as you in all this. That thought quickly disappeared as she started to massage her ex’s impressive bulge through his shorts, planting gentle kisses along his neck as his dick began to grow bigger. You could try to take the key back from him by force—but the significantly bigger man would have no issue kicking your ass. The next option, flight, was seeming pretty good right about now, but this was your house after all. Where would you even go? As you numbly fumbled through all possible outcomes, each worse than the last, Donovan broke the stunned silence by explaining the reality of your new situation.
“Things are going to change around here.” He stated bluntly. “If you ever want to cum again,” He flicked the key hanging around his neck, “You’ll be a good little bitch and do as you’re told.”
He continued on, giving you all the sorry details. Sex with your girlfriend was, of course, completely off of the table. You would never again feel her touch. Donovan owned your cock now, so if you were going to cum—and that’s a mighty big if—you’d do it the way he wanted. Your girl was his now. Or rather, she had never stopped being his. You see, Don had never been the “ex” boyfriend; he’d been plowing your darling girlfriend from the start. All those late nights at work, those days she was feeling too tired to put out for you? Yeah, she’d been with Don, sucking him off and taking his cock while he planned this little ruse. There was nothing more arousing to the pair of them than to trap some helpless, pathetic man; it was so much hotter to fuck when a humiliated loser could only watch through his tears. The rush of power Don got from forcing his sweaty pits into a man’s face while he fucked someone they loved, plunging them into the depths of disgust and despair while he experienced the sexual ecstasy that they would never receive, was truly unparalleled. Your stomach dropped as you looked back to his furry underarms, starting to understand what his message had meant. You wanted to protest, to threaten to go to the cops, to stand up for yourself and kick these psychos out of your house, but somehow you already knew that it wasn’t going to happen. This man was clearly so far superior, so commanding and intense, a hundred times more masculine than you could ever be. Like a spell had been cast on you, you found yourself already resigned to the role of pit-licking cuckold. Your heart felt like it could burst as you realized that all your relationship was, all it ever was from the start, was just a ploy to get you to this very moment. “Did you really think that tiny cock deserves her?” He asked with a sneer. Your girlfriend laughed, adding that she fantasized about locking it up from the first time they had sex. That a man so pathetic should never be allowed to fuck a woman, that all he deserved was to choke on the sweat and hair of a better men. Don clearly took great pleasure in your rising humiliation, his dick now standing fully erect as feminine fingers worked their way up and down his shaft. So here was the new deal: You would debase yourself for them. You would humiliate yourself for them. You would watch them fuck in your bed, watch another man take your girlfriend’s pussy while your own pathetic cock twitched in its little cage. You would do the chores around the house while they went on romantic dates. You would pay rent while they slept in your bed and ate your home cooked meals. You would clean Don’s feet with your tongue while they cuddled on the couch and watched your favorite movies. And if you did that, if you followed every order without question, then maybe—maybe, that key could fall into your possession.
As your former woman slid the shorts down off of her lover, Donovan motioned to his thick, black tuft of armpit hair. “In short; I get pussy, you get pits. And if your face isn’t buried in here in the next five seconds, I’ll be throwing this key into a river.” It only took you one to make your decision. Your will completely destroyed in a single conversation, you made your way to the couch. As your nose made contact with the forest of sweaty hair, her lips wrap around his cock. A strong hand gripped the back of your head, forcing you in deeper, filling your nostrils with a pungent musk that would now replace the scent of a woman.
“Lick.” The command was to both you and your ex-girlfriend, and you both complied. Her, enthusiastically running her tongue over the real man’s cock, and you, choking back tears as you faced the ultimate humiliation. This was your new life: Watching another man fuck the woman you loved, while your tongue made love to his disgusting armpits. And fuck they did, for hours that night. You were stripped naked, save for the metal cage locking your inferior cock away. The difference between you and your new master were made even more plain in the absence of clothes. He was an impressive specimen, covered head to toe in rippling muscles and thick, dark hair, a large cock hanging freely between his legs. All sorts of horrible humiliations were forced upon you that night; Don’s feet smothered your face while she rode him. Her back arched in ecstasy, crying out Donovan’s name, pausing only to ask you how it felt to lick the sweat off of another man’s feet, how it felt to watch him take what was yours. You used to be a proud, strong man; now you were a cock-less foot slave. He grabbed your face, shoving it close to the pussy you’d never touch again while he rammed in and out, forcing you to kiss his massive bush as he neared orgasm. He came inside her, and she finished soon after. As they lay together in post-coital bliss, your face was again shoved back into that dreadful armpit, now full of sweat and stinking of sex. Despite the occasionally gag, you dutifully cleaned each pit with your tongue while they lay there, completely ignoring your existence. They laughed and cuddled, reminiscing about all the men they’ve conned into a similar situation, recounting the seemingly endless stories of men who’s manhood was destroyed by pits and feet. After an hour of tongue cleaning, Don mercifully pulled your face away. You were hoping to be dismissed; even a night spent crying on the couch would be preferable to another second of torment. But she had other ideas.
“He’s been so good, hasn’t he Don? Maybe the loser should get to fuck his pussy, too. He deserves a reward.” She looked at you with those doting, loving eyes, and for a moment, you had the briefest glimmer of hope. She stood up, her gorgeous naked form silhouetted against the darkness. She took a place behind you. “Arms behind your back.” She whisper, sending goosebumps up and down your spine. You felt your wrists being bound behind you, a tight knot at the wrist and elbows, precluding all movement. As she pushed you forward, your cage inching ever closer to Don’s awaiting armpit, all hope was again lost. You struggled, you begged—this was a step too far, even for you. But she only laughed sadistically as the cage made contact with his pit hairs. “Go ahead!” She cried. “Fuck your pussy, bitch!” She thrust her hips into your back, forcing your caged cock and balls to run back and forth along the soft black hair. Your begging quickly devolved into something even more pathetic—squealing laughter. Don’s tufts of hair poked their way in-between the rungs of your cage, gently brushing across your shaft in a way that tickled horribly. Worse still was your sensitive balls, completely unprotected from the thousand ticklish bristles that ran along their underside. It was the worst sensation you ever felt, your caged manhood being tortured and teased by another man’s armpit hair completely against your will. You struggled and bucked, gasping for mercy as the laughter poured out of you. The happy couple laughed along with you, and can you really blame them? It must have been a hilariously pathetic sight, watching a man squeal like a little girl while his captive manhood was tickled relentlessly. “Are you going to cum? Are you going to cum from a sweaty armpit?” She cooed. “You’re not good enough for pussy if you can’t even handle this. Say it. Say you only deserve armpits.”
And you did. They made you say it over and over, professing your inadequacy through helpless giggles as any shred of dignity you had remaining was stripped away. After they had their fill, they sent you away so they could fuck again, their libidos raised by your pathetic display of submission. As the days turned into weeks, and then months, you were treated much the same. Don got pussy, and kisses, and love, while your life consisted of pits, feet, humiliation, and ticklish prison of hair. As an hope of eventual release slowly began to leave your mind, you started to think that maybe Don was right.
Those pits really had ruined your life.
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Titles for part two, which is already in the works (and maybe part three?):
The boss
The lesbian roomate
The Bully
The Prisoner
The Swingers
The fetish model
Let me know which one you're looking forward to most.
