Lil Junebug
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- Oct 16, 2023
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Hi Everyone!
I finally decided to post a story. A Clockwork Orange is a move from the 70s about a group of four psychotic teenagers who rob and rape women for fun (it sounds twisted, and it is, but it's actually based on a famous novel and an actual scientific experiment in the 50s). The ringleader is arrested for murder, and to lighten his sentence he's given an opportunity to participate in a groundbreaking study where they force him to watch violent sex scenes all day. The treatment is designed to make patients incapable of committing acts of violence or sexual predation because it sickens them. I thought it would be a great backdrop for a serious tickling story! Of course, I'm the star of the story
I have limited time to write stories for free, but I really want to finish this over time. I'll repost with new material whenever I have a lot of it. Here's the first half of chapter one:
*********
When the Sirens were finally arrested, many people completely unrelated to them admitted to the police that they’d taken ridiculous steps to avoid their wrath. One woman took to wearing a thick petticoat and boots on hot summer days because she swore she could feel fingertips crawling across her feet and ribs. A man said he always kept his arms pressed to his sides when in public because he feared a pair of greedy hands would slide under his arms and drop him to the ground in a pathetic, giggling mess. Mothers kept their children indoors. Fathers purchased security systems.
What unnerved all of them the most was they knew it made no difference. The Sirens would get them. They were too good. Cash, jewelry, clothes, computers, even cars… they could pilfer anything from anyone whenever they wanted. But what frightened them more is that the Sirens had an insatiable, malevolent proclivity for tickling the unholy hell out of their victims. They used it for interrogations, but once the victim coughed up the location of their cash, jewelry, credit cards, or whatever else, they’d become the main course in an evening of orgiastic debauchery that would make Dionysus blush.
They’d strip and restrain their victims – usually to their beds or couches – then make quick work of each other’s clothing until everyone was naked. Then it began:
Years of practice taught them the best way to destroy a human being solely by tickling them. No need to break someone’s bones, or burn them, maybe shoot bamboo underneath their fingernails; just stroke, poke, scratch, grab, prod… simple touches could drive a person insane, especially if tickled during a wild orgy of dynamic young women. They realized quickly that it’s tough not be ticklish when what you’re witnessing makes you want to be tickled one way or the other.
Each siren had a favorite technique. Katrina, a tall, 25 year-old woman with long black hair, green eyes, and tremendous hands always favored physically overpowering and pinning victims rather than restrain them with ropes, cuffs, or whatever else. She loved the feeling of wrists cradled by her fleshy palm pads, locked in place with fingers so long they could almost encircle a baseball bat; she smirked as the victim’s useless hands went in and out of fists, flopping around like a fish while the arms on the other side of her hands flexed and tugged in a panic. She preferred pinning someone’s wrists to the ground from behind because nothing aroused her more than tickling people with her tongue, especially under their arms and around their nipples. While the other Sirens did the heavy lifting, she was often content to just peck at nipples with the tip of her tongue, dab them with soft lips, nibble on them lightly.
D'Arcy was the prototypical bad girl of the bunch. A terrible lisp, an absentee father, and drug-addict mother had her smoking pot and downing vodka shooters by middle school; it only went downhill from there. She had a two-page rap sheet and did a year of time in a medium security prison for assaulting a department store clerk who caught her shoplifting bras. Now a handsome, if not unremarkable, 27 year-old, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman, she originally found tickling only because it allowed her to share time drinking with and fucking around with her sisters. Fortunately for them – and unfortunately for her victims – she quickly realized that overpowering someone with tickles turned her into a wild animal. Vibrators were perfect for her: edging someone until they begged for dear life made her clit buzz, so she’d switch back and forth edging her victims and herself until one came. She was also great with her nails. They were always painted black to match her goth clothing and sleeves of dark tats, and they hung just over the edge of her fingertips. People with ticklish feet cursed their own births if she was in a good mood.
At first glance, Mikayla seemed like the oddball. She almost always wore jeans, T-shirts, and a gold necklace with a cross pendant in public. At 5’11, she was captain of her high school volleyball team. She had a business degree and drove a 2016 Toyota Camry. Her thighs were a little thick, she cringed at the thought of fake tits, and her brown eyes and hair were completely unremarkable. At work, however, she was workmanlike and sadistic. She favored a Catwoman suit, long, red nails, and straddling people so she could watch their expressions as they slowly deteriorated from her hands all over everything from the waist up. She loved to talk smack, gave few breaks, and enjoyed dangling feathers in her victims’ noses and ears.
June was the ringleader. No one knew when, but she’d slowly morphed into a tickle-crazed sociopath. Her fascination with tickling began as a toddler, but her first taste of the power of true tickle torture came during her freshman year of college. Two sophomores notorious for tickling freshman to tears attacked her in her dorm room, binding her to a couch with towels before tickling and fingering her until she cried. At 5’2, 115, and rather shy, June was an easy target. She wasn’t a looker, but her big, hazel eyes and wavy amber hair attracted attention. She had perfect, soft pink feet and the adorable habit of squealing while laughing hard. The girls tickled and baby-talked her for at least a half hour, then figured an orgasm would be a fair reward for being their tickle bitch. What they didn’t know is that they’d just popped a girl’s cherry while tied to a couch hoarse from ticklish laughter.
June bumped into one of the girls at the beach two years later. It was a cloudy, mild day, the kind where only die-hard surfers, hand-holding lovers, and depressed brooders take to the ocean. The girl was the latter. She was in the bag for obliterating her father’s 2024 SUV into a tree and couldn’t stomach going home to face him. She recognized June and apologized profusely for the locker room affair. Her flush cheeks and red eyes indicated that she’d been crying for a long time. As the poor girl spilled her guts, June remembered feeling strange that she felt no empathy. The only thing on her mind was finding a way to obliterate this chick.
She convinced her that a nap would clear her mind. June eased her on to her tummy like a doting mother and covered her with a blanket. Once asleep, she bound her ankles with a towel and pinned her arms to her sides by cuffing her wrists and encircling her body with two surfboard leashes she found nearby. She woke her with a bucket of salt water, and as soon as the girl opened her mouth to unleash a diatribe of filth, June stuffed her T-shirt in her mouth and held it in place by wrapping a scrunchie around her head. The final measure was to wrap in her in the blanket to avoid attention, even though the closest person on the barren beach was a guy tossing a stick to his dog a hundred yards away.
Now in place, June sat on her ankles and went to town. June remembered how this was the girl who focused on her feet, which meant hers were probably ticklish. She praised her own logic the moment the girl shrieked into her gag and bounced up and down like a seal trying to shimmy away. June treated the occasion as a self-paced graduate school course in foot tickling. She raked the girl’s arches, pecked at her toe beds, pried her big toe back and slithered her tongue underneath it, nibbled on her heels and soles, flossed her toes with slimy kelp. She quickly learned that she ADORED kissing her feet while scribbling her nails on them. The variation of the two sensations drove her victim crazy. She banged her head on the sand and screamed into the rag. She sobbed, and June could hear her begging. Mmmmmpppppphh sorrryyyy mmmpppph. Plemmmmpppphhh stopppppmmmmpppphhh.
I finally decided to post a story. A Clockwork Orange is a move from the 70s about a group of four psychotic teenagers who rob and rape women for fun (it sounds twisted, and it is, but it's actually based on a famous novel and an actual scientific experiment in the 50s). The ringleader is arrested for murder, and to lighten his sentence he's given an opportunity to participate in a groundbreaking study where they force him to watch violent sex scenes all day. The treatment is designed to make patients incapable of committing acts of violence or sexual predation because it sickens them. I thought it would be a great backdrop for a serious tickling story! Of course, I'm the star of the story
I have limited time to write stories for free, but I really want to finish this over time. I'll repost with new material whenever I have a lot of it. Here's the first half of chapter one:
*********
When the Sirens were finally arrested, many people completely unrelated to them admitted to the police that they’d taken ridiculous steps to avoid their wrath. One woman took to wearing a thick petticoat and boots on hot summer days because she swore she could feel fingertips crawling across her feet and ribs. A man said he always kept his arms pressed to his sides when in public because he feared a pair of greedy hands would slide under his arms and drop him to the ground in a pathetic, giggling mess. Mothers kept their children indoors. Fathers purchased security systems.
What unnerved all of them the most was they knew it made no difference. The Sirens would get them. They were too good. Cash, jewelry, clothes, computers, even cars… they could pilfer anything from anyone whenever they wanted. But what frightened them more is that the Sirens had an insatiable, malevolent proclivity for tickling the unholy hell out of their victims. They used it for interrogations, but once the victim coughed up the location of their cash, jewelry, credit cards, or whatever else, they’d become the main course in an evening of orgiastic debauchery that would make Dionysus blush.
They’d strip and restrain their victims – usually to their beds or couches – then make quick work of each other’s clothing until everyone was naked. Then it began:
Years of practice taught them the best way to destroy a human being solely by tickling them. No need to break someone’s bones, or burn them, maybe shoot bamboo underneath their fingernails; just stroke, poke, scratch, grab, prod… simple touches could drive a person insane, especially if tickled during a wild orgy of dynamic young women. They realized quickly that it’s tough not be ticklish when what you’re witnessing makes you want to be tickled one way or the other.
Each siren had a favorite technique. Katrina, a tall, 25 year-old woman with long black hair, green eyes, and tremendous hands always favored physically overpowering and pinning victims rather than restrain them with ropes, cuffs, or whatever else. She loved the feeling of wrists cradled by her fleshy palm pads, locked in place with fingers so long they could almost encircle a baseball bat; she smirked as the victim’s useless hands went in and out of fists, flopping around like a fish while the arms on the other side of her hands flexed and tugged in a panic. She preferred pinning someone’s wrists to the ground from behind because nothing aroused her more than tickling people with her tongue, especially under their arms and around their nipples. While the other Sirens did the heavy lifting, she was often content to just peck at nipples with the tip of her tongue, dab them with soft lips, nibble on them lightly.
D'Arcy was the prototypical bad girl of the bunch. A terrible lisp, an absentee father, and drug-addict mother had her smoking pot and downing vodka shooters by middle school; it only went downhill from there. She had a two-page rap sheet and did a year of time in a medium security prison for assaulting a department store clerk who caught her shoplifting bras. Now a handsome, if not unremarkable, 27 year-old, blond-haired, blue-eyed woman, she originally found tickling only because it allowed her to share time drinking with and fucking around with her sisters. Fortunately for them – and unfortunately for her victims – she quickly realized that overpowering someone with tickles turned her into a wild animal. Vibrators were perfect for her: edging someone until they begged for dear life made her clit buzz, so she’d switch back and forth edging her victims and herself until one came. She was also great with her nails. They were always painted black to match her goth clothing and sleeves of dark tats, and they hung just over the edge of her fingertips. People with ticklish feet cursed their own births if she was in a good mood.
At first glance, Mikayla seemed like the oddball. She almost always wore jeans, T-shirts, and a gold necklace with a cross pendant in public. At 5’11, she was captain of her high school volleyball team. She had a business degree and drove a 2016 Toyota Camry. Her thighs were a little thick, she cringed at the thought of fake tits, and her brown eyes and hair were completely unremarkable. At work, however, she was workmanlike and sadistic. She favored a Catwoman suit, long, red nails, and straddling people so she could watch their expressions as they slowly deteriorated from her hands all over everything from the waist up. She loved to talk smack, gave few breaks, and enjoyed dangling feathers in her victims’ noses and ears.
June was the ringleader. No one knew when, but she’d slowly morphed into a tickle-crazed sociopath. Her fascination with tickling began as a toddler, but her first taste of the power of true tickle torture came during her freshman year of college. Two sophomores notorious for tickling freshman to tears attacked her in her dorm room, binding her to a couch with towels before tickling and fingering her until she cried. At 5’2, 115, and rather shy, June was an easy target. She wasn’t a looker, but her big, hazel eyes and wavy amber hair attracted attention. She had perfect, soft pink feet and the adorable habit of squealing while laughing hard. The girls tickled and baby-talked her for at least a half hour, then figured an orgasm would be a fair reward for being their tickle bitch. What they didn’t know is that they’d just popped a girl’s cherry while tied to a couch hoarse from ticklish laughter.
June bumped into one of the girls at the beach two years later. It was a cloudy, mild day, the kind where only die-hard surfers, hand-holding lovers, and depressed brooders take to the ocean. The girl was the latter. She was in the bag for obliterating her father’s 2024 SUV into a tree and couldn’t stomach going home to face him. She recognized June and apologized profusely for the locker room affair. Her flush cheeks and red eyes indicated that she’d been crying for a long time. As the poor girl spilled her guts, June remembered feeling strange that she felt no empathy. The only thing on her mind was finding a way to obliterate this chick.
She convinced her that a nap would clear her mind. June eased her on to her tummy like a doting mother and covered her with a blanket. Once asleep, she bound her ankles with a towel and pinned her arms to her sides by cuffing her wrists and encircling her body with two surfboard leashes she found nearby. She woke her with a bucket of salt water, and as soon as the girl opened her mouth to unleash a diatribe of filth, June stuffed her T-shirt in her mouth and held it in place by wrapping a scrunchie around her head. The final measure was to wrap in her in the blanket to avoid attention, even though the closest person on the barren beach was a guy tossing a stick to his dog a hundred yards away.
Now in place, June sat on her ankles and went to town. June remembered how this was the girl who focused on her feet, which meant hers were probably ticklish. She praised her own logic the moment the girl shrieked into her gag and bounced up and down like a seal trying to shimmy away. June treated the occasion as a self-paced graduate school course in foot tickling. She raked the girl’s arches, pecked at her toe beds, pried her big toe back and slithered her tongue underneath it, nibbled on her heels and soles, flossed her toes with slimy kelp. She quickly learned that she ADORED kissing her feet while scribbling her nails on them. The variation of the two sensations drove her victim crazy. She banged her head on the sand and screamed into the rag. She sobbed, and June could hear her begging. Mmmmmpppppphh sorrryyyy mmmpppph. Plemmmmpppphhh stopppppmmmmpppphhh.
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