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This Story was written By Capt Spaulding, and while I was doing some Archiology in the old forum, I decided that it should be reposted here.
*The following F>F>F>M (and so forth and so on…) tickle tale is copyright 2001 by the author.
*This saga is a shameless reworking of the anonymous story “Brenda and Sarah,” which has
been posted on the Tickling Media Forum. I hope the uncredited author of that story regards this humble
imitation as the sincerest form of flattery, which it is, as I think that story is a “wow,” a simple delight
telling of an ordinary day at a store that becomes a snowballing tickle nightmare for two unlucky women.
If you wrote the original, and want to punch me in the nose (Don’t sue, I’m broke!), call your shot to
[email protected]. (Indeed, all responses are welcome there.)
*Dedicated to the those of us who instantly think, “tickling” and not “housework” when we see a
feather duster. “Hey, darlin’, heh-heh-heh, there’s a little dust on your toes….”
*This tale is not intended for readers under 18, so I’ll wait while the too young among us click
away. (Insert here sound of me stretching and idly humming.) Are they all gone? Hey, you! Yes, you!
The kid in Indianapolis. Get moving. (More humming.) OK, I think it’s all clear. Let’s be naughty…
ONE has been crooned as the loneliest number. TWO’s company (except on ‘70s TV). THREE’s a crowd (especially if they’re named Moe, Larry, and Curley). This story, though, proves that it takes FOUR hapless people to become…
HELPLESSLY HILARIOUS
by Tee Hee Lawrence
1--Four Bound for Trouble
Pat Pettibone sighed and stuffed another palm-sized scrub brush, another foldable lint brush, and
another collapsible feather duster along with the full-color brochure into the small bright yellow shopping
bag bearing the logo of King Household Brushes. Upon the long table before her stood dozens upon
dozens of the filled bags, their tufts of lime green tissue paper swirling around their blue plastic handles.
At her feet under the table were the four large, seemingly bottomless cartons heaving with brushes and
dusters and brochures. She blew, popped, and withdrew a bright pink chewing gum bubble as she wearily
considered their contents.
As she grabbed another lint brush, her eyes wandered out the window and fixed on a distant knot of folks flying kites in the park across from the industrial park. It was a very warm and bright late April
Saturday, and she was cooped up in the quiet King administrative offices doing some overtime. She needed
the money if she was going to join her friends and bum around Europe the coming summer. This, however, was not the way a fun-loving, nineteen year old 5’, 5” strawberry blonde (who was full-figured but not a bit fat, thank you, and drew eyes when she sprung for stylish clothes and salon visits and when she took care to
make-up properly) truly wanted to spend a model Spring day.
She admitted that she’d skimped on form today, seeing how the office was virtually deserted and
the day was hot almost and the air-conditioning was unavailable. She was dressed in an Ally McBeal T-shirt--far too small for her really, and riding up her middle, revealing the silver ring in her navel—a
mid-thigh blue denim skirt, and raised black leather slides. Fortunately, she had anticipated barefoot
season, and had the salon just last night give her feet the works, including a soak and scrub to remove every
bit of winter callus from her soles. Her feet were pink and soft, her toe nails iridescent with ice blue polish.
She was admiring her feet and catching the sunlight in the rings on her second toes when her nose
was tickled by a sweet scent and she heard a throat clearing behind her. Sondra Hooper. Her boss. Tapping the toe of her high heel. Her hand no doubt set upon her hip, her head certainly tilted at a skeptical angle.
Pat reached down to grab a scrub brush, and Sonny (as everyone in the office called her) leaned over with her two hands on the table and smiled into Pat’s blue eyes.
“Patricia, you’ve been at this almost two hours and these cartons aren’t even half empty,” Sonny
chided in a warm, maternal tone. “Girl, you suffering from spring fever or something? A few weeks ago
you were telling me that you had the winter blues but that the spring would give you energy.”
“Well--well, it does,” insisted Pat, giving way to giggles at Sonny’s rolling eyes. “I guess I’m just
not used to focussing it all yet.”
“I guess not,” conceded Sonny. “Girl, we got to get these done. The chain buyer’s convention
hits town on Monday, and we want one of these goody bags in the hands of each buyer the first day.
You need some help. I’ve still got reports to print out, but Maribel may be through with her back orders.
I’ll give her a call.”
Sonny sat on the corner of a nearby desk, swinging one of her legs, and talked on the intercom.
Pat didn’t really dislike her boss, even if the woman was on her back constantly. Pat didn’t think it was
a racial thing. Sonny was simply the gung-ho office manager of King Brushes. Why else would she be
here on such a lovely off day, dressed as neatly as if it were a regular weekday? Sonny was (Pat guessed)
maybe 35 and about 5’7” tall. She was a shapely, pleasingly featured black woman, with a short cap of
reddish brown curls and bright brown eyes (that displayed a periodic squint that was due to skepticism as much as a slight astigmatism). She wore eyeglasses on a lanyard, but a bit vainly donned them only for
detail work.. She was wearing--neat as always--a canary blouse under a burgundy woolen jacket with a
matching knee length skirt, smoky hose, and polished black high heels. She even had perfumed herself
with a rich jasmine scent.
Sonny ended her phone conversation with a burst of snorts and sputters which widened into a
bray of high-pitched laughter, which she brought under control as she sighed, “Oh, my, that girl! So
funny! She’ll be here in a sec’. ” Everyone in the office made fun of Sonny’s braying laughter, and vied
for the chance to induce it. Pat appreciated that, as she used it to keep track of Sonny’s whereabouts. A
braying boss couldn’t sneak up on her when she was goofing off, as she was a few minutes ago.
Watching the college girl make a show of doubling her efforts with the bags, Sonny smiled and
thought that Pat was bright enough, but just so undisciplined. Still, the kid was an office assistant here
three days a week and going to community college as well, so maybe she should go a little easier on her.
But if only she were motivated, Sonny thought, Pat might really get moving. Pretty girl, but so dreamy and
so lazy, and every so often, she’d make a smart remark that made it clear she thought herself far too good
for the work. Plus, she had an irritating habit of vigorously chewing and snapping bubble gum, as she was
heedlessly doing now.
Just then, Maribel Pino walked in and said in a low, accented voice, “Here I am. What do you
need done?” She tossed her long, lustrous black hair, which she normally wore in a bun, but it was
Saturday, so it was hanging long and loose down past her shoulder blades. She wore a Yankees cap,
a black sports bra under a red mesh T-shirt, which had large reinforced holes along its sides, black jeans,
and her bare feet were in black Chinese slippers, each with a red rose stitched atop. She wore bright red
lipstick and nail polish, which flashed attractively against her olive skin. She had hazel eyes, a sharp small nose and chin, and a small mouth with a sly fierce smile. While she was only 5’2”, she was full chested
and firm buttocked, a smolderingly sensuous 27-year-old single mother of two.
Maybe it was because Maribel was a Latina, or it was because she’d been a teen-aged mother,
with experiences well outside the sheltered suburban life Pat enjoyed, but the two didn’t get along very
well. When they shared a task, as they were now, sitting side by side, their hands occasionally bumping
as they reached for a brush or a bag or some tissue paper, they said little to each other. For Maribel, her
coolness towards Pat stemmed from the day the teen had made some thoughtless remarks about the loud
salsa playing from the Latina’s radio one day. There was no love lost between them, which Sonny thought,
with a chuckle, might keep them both working steadily, to spite each other all afternoon. For her part, she
liked Maribel’s initiative, work ethic, and swagger, and wished a bit would rub off on the college girl. And
Maribel enjoyed joking with Sonny, whom she sensed to be rather playful and soft beneath her office
managerial hard shell.
Just then, the last of the four King Brush employees in the office wing today stomped into
the room, his arms full of flattened company cartons, his head bobbing to the hip hop coursing through
his Walkman. Without a word to the others, Marc Dante snatched up a tape dispenser hanging from his belt
and began to assemble the boxes. He soon had a stack of empties wobbling alongside the women’s
work table.
Sonny began to tell him to try to pack the bags upright without crushing them in the cartons, which should be closed but not taped, when she realized he couldn’t hear a word she said. She yelled,
“Hello?” and waved her violet nailed fingers in front of his face. He slipped off his headphones, received the instructions with a slack jaw, replaced the headphones, and proceeded to follow instructions. He did his
job, but sometimes Sonny felt that talking to the 18 year old high school senior, clad today in his usual
navy work shirt (with his name stitched in red above the pocket and with the company logo on each short
sleeve) and pants, sockless (Well, it was the weekend…) in Timberland moccasins, was like talking to an extraterrestrial.
Marc found the black woman impossibly intimidating, so he dreaded these occasions when
he had to work with her staring at him. It was all he could do to keep his eyes from dwelling on her
full breasts straining against her blouse or her shapely, stocking-clad legs. He was certain she could
easily read his shy, lustful thoughts about her, and that, if he met her gaze for more than absolutely
necessary, the resulting hard-on would get him fired—and maybe sued for harassment.
Maribel smiled at Marc, and he gave a shy smile back. She thought he’d be a stud, what with
his big bedroom brown eyes, cute, cleft chin, wide shoulders, long, graceful hands, and pleasing
butt, if only he’d put a lot more meat on his frail 5’10’ frame—he couldn’t weigh that much more than
Blondie here—and have someone style his unruly sandy curls. Plus, he needed some cojones, some fire
in the belly, meet a girl’s gaze squarely, and talk like he meant it, instead of always mumbling to the
floor.
Frankly, Maribel baffled Marc. He had trouble understanding her accented English, found her
aggressive body language threatening, and wished she wouldn’t press upon him so many tapes of Latin soul
that he pretended to listen to. Still, he admired her small round butt, rather firm for the mother of two kids. Figuring that thinking wasn’t too safe either, he tried to focus on bags and cartons.
Pat didn’t like Marc because she was sure he wanted to hit on her but didn’t have the balls to do it.
They would see each other sometimes in a mall or at the diner, and she felt that he was plotting an exit strategy as soon as she said hello to him. Yet, she’d catch him sometimes, as he was doing now-- between
stuffing the bags of brushes in the cartons--examining her out of the corners of his eyes. Or at least she
thought he was. She couldn’t decide if her goosebumps meant she was creeped out or excited.
Marc thought Pat felt he was a nerd, a high school wet-nose, while she was a social magnet on
the community college campus, where there must be any number of guys hovering around her. He wished
he played a tough sport (and didn’t merely run cross-country), or drove a stock car, or had a cobra tattooed on his bicep. He wished he could keep from peeking at her bare legs, and that she’d stop sliding her feet
out of her shoes, and stop wiggling them so that the sunlight wouldn’t flash off her toe ring
2--Three Put Four into One Pickle
Suddenly, three ski-masked figures burst into the room and, wielding firearms, loudly ordered
the four stunned employees to kiss the carpet. All four—not wishing to spill any blood for King Brushes-- quickly did so, though Maribel had to drag Marc down, as his headphones had kept him from paying the gunmen any notice. Sonny, struggling to keep a calm, even tone, asked, “Wha-what’s this all about? What do you want? This is no bank!”
“Lady, shut up and lie still,” one of the intruders shouted at her, and, after grabbing the key ring
clipped to the belt of her skirt, pushed her down prone. “Normally this place is quiet as a tomb on weekends, and we figured today would be no different. But you four being here save us the trouble of busting locks and monkeying with alarms, and your cars in back keep our van from lookin’ conspicuous.”
“Mira—look, mister,” said Maribel, her kids in mind, “please, we’re just poor working people.”
With a crack of gum, Pat added, leaning up on her elbows, “Yeah, we just work here. With brushes for crissakes.”
“That’s it!” shouted a second masked marauder. “If you can’t control yourselves, we’ll help ya!
So you won’t do or see or say anything you might regret. So RE-LAAAAX!” —He was still shouting! —
“and you won’t get hurt!”
“Boy, it’s a good thing there’s a discount outlet across the road,’ the third intruder observed
as they set about restraining their four prisoners. “We were able to pick up lots of rope and bandannas
and handkerchiefs for a song.”
“Shuddup, willya?” cried the first bandit. “Just tie these clowns up.”
Sonny was straining to recognize the masked voices. She figured that more than one might have been recently laid-off King employees. There had been a recent production slowdown and layoffs (which kept the adjoining factory and warehouse quiet and deserted on weekends, and usually, but for this
particular Saturday, the office, too). These guys were exploiting the firm’s extremely lax security today.
She tried to keep them talking, saying, “Now, look…,” before she had a cloth stuffed in her mouth and a
bandanna pulled across it and knotted behind her neck. Then another folded bandanna was drawn across
her eyes and secured behind her head. Her wrists were roughly held behind the small of her back and
roped together and secured with a skillful knot. The same skill was displayed in the loops binding her
ankles tightly together.
Pat, Maribel, and Marc were gagged, blindfolded, and tied in similar fashion. The intruder handling Pat first had her spit out her healthy pink wad of bubble gum, which he stuck on her nose before proceeding. Marc’s manhandler absurdly left the kid’s headphones over his ears when his blindfold was
secured, and his Hip-Hop concert continued unabated while he was being trussed up. Once she was gagged, Maribel began a stream of invective in Spanish and English that was muffled, which was “’Lucky for all of us,” thought Sonny. “The wrong word could set these guys off.”
Nosing around, one of the intruders found nearby a spacious carpeted windowless room, which was used for meetings and storage. The four helpless captives were hustled inside and released to clumsily
lurch about the center of the room. Along the walls were rows of folded chairs, a few folded tables, and
a couple of sets of tall metal shelves, upon which rested large cartons. After one yanked the phone off of
the wall, the robbers slammed the door shut and, swearing at the profusion of keys on Sonny’s ring, locked the four within.
Now, virtually rubbing their hands with glee, the burglars went about looting as much office equipment as their little nondescript van could hold, and forgot all about their prisoners tucked away in
the storeroom. In rapid order, they drove off, after tossing their realistic toy Magnums into the van with
the loot…
3--The Boss Challenges Standing Pat
If the robbers had seemed to show one mercy to their captives, it was the fact that they had left
the overhead florescent lights in the storeroom on when they’d slammed the door shut. Of course, being
blindfolded, Pat and Sondra and Maribel and Marc couldn’t appreciate the gesture. They were scattered,
standing unsteadily yards apart from each other, trying vainly to utter coherent speech through their gags
and finding little give to their bonds. Each was trying to speak, for it would have been a great comfort if
each could have located and reassured the others. They didn’t even know if all of them were here safely
together. They were angry and aching and anxious, too, that the hoods, perhaps, weren’t through with them.
Sonny especially was concerned, as she felt responsible for calling her three colleagues to work
that day, leaving all four of them at the mercy of three determined criminals. It was a few hours still before
the security service would notice that King’s evening alarm hadn’t set been at 6 P.M., as she had scheduled that morning. She hoped the industrial park patrol, seeing cars parked behind the office— lately unusual on
Saturdays--might soon stop and curiously check in the office, and rescue them. That could, however, be a
long way off. The robbers—who, while storing the four, had floridly discussed whether they should harm or perhaps even permanently silence their prisoners—might return to toy with them so more. Still, she
couldn’t hear them now, and she thought it time to try and free herself. After testing her firm bonds, she realized it might be easier to locate one of the others, and to maneuver herself so as to untie that person. Blind, hampered by her gag and her severely restricted mobility, she shuffled about, cocking her head
for sounds of the others…
Maribel was so livid that the brutes had mistreated a hardworking single mother that she swore to strangle them with her bare hands when she got free. She was also so afraid that she assured God that
if she survived this ordeal she’d stop yelling at or hitting the kids and Guillermo would get that baseball mitt and Nadia that Digimon cart they’d been nagging her for. Fired thus by anger and fear, Maribel
struggled tensely in her bonds to no avail. She quickly decided that, if she couldn’t free herself, she might
be able to move close enough to another so they might free each other. Hearing the Hip-Hop leaking from
Marc’s headphones, she swayed uneasily towards the sound…
Marc was ticked off enough by the fact that he couldn’t free his hands to change the CD in his Walkman: he’d heard this disc twice already. The embarrassment he felt, however, at being roped, sightless
and voiceless, like the wimp he was always trying not to be—before three girls even!—made him want to
bellow into his gag, which he did. He just wanted to get free and get the hell away. Those robbers, though,
were pros and they’d tied him damn good—too good for him to untie himself. And he’d be like this forever if he waited for the women to help him or free themselves. Well, he might find a sharp edge to cut his ropes upon if he felt about, so he ponderously began backing up…
Pat was trying not to think about having to pee. It wasn’t actually that her bladder was anywhere
near distress; it was really the thought that she was helpless and tied in a room with no bathroom and she
couldn’t shout for help. Also her T-shirt, in all her struggles, had really ridden up and was bunched above
her bra, the balky clasp of which she felt had come loose, and her breasts were threatening to tumble out in
plain sight. She felt sure her co-workers had been blindfolded as she had, so they couldn’t see. But she
didn’t want the robbers to get any wrong ideas about her. And her new and not cheap leather slides had,
in the confusion, slipped off of her bare feet. One of those hoods might decide to take them as a present for his @#%$. She was shuffling her feet awkwardly around on the carpet, hoping to find her slides, when she felt someone’s fingers wiggling across her back…
Behind her back, Sonny felt her hands brush against bare flesh and thought, “All right! ‘ Found someone! ‘ Wonder who?” Trying to orient herself, her fingers roamed over the smooth skin. Sonny heard “Meeep! Ngh! Muhr! Mwah-ha-ha!” and the other seemed to jerk away. “Hey, stop!” thought Sonny. “Can’t you sense what I’m trying to do? How can I untie you if you don’t keep still?” Cursing her gag, she bumped again into the other, trying awkwardly with her bound hands to restrain the other.
Pat, for her part, was laughing giddily into her gag, as the persistent fingers stroked across her
exposed back and dug into her tender sides. For a moment, in her hysteria, she thought one of the robbers had returned to torture her by tickling! Then, her own hands felt the ropes wrapped around the other’s
wrists. Why would one of her coworkers tickle her? Couldn’t that one tell, from her muffled shrieks of laughter, how ticklish she was? This was no time to be fooling around! If only she could get rid of this gag and shout at the tickler to stop! All she could do, though, was laugh into it, “Mmmphh-bmmphf-mwah-mwah-hah-HAH-HAH-hah….”
Sonny heard the stifled shrieks, and she finally recognized them as laughter. “Well, of all the idiotic things!” she thought. “Here I am trying to get you loose and you think it’s a joke! Get a grip and
hold still!” The manager realized that her young coworker (she was guessing Pat, by the shrieks) was probably disoriented and panicked, but she was hoping she’d calm down and work with her. (“If only I could speak…”) She worked even harder to blindly position herself within reach of the knots binding the girl’s wrists. Her furiously working fingers couldn’t help but poke the other’s back and sides. The muffled
laughter seemed to increase as her efforts did. “Ngh-ngh-ngh-muphl-pufl-pwah-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH….”
Some yards away, Marc backed into the advancing Maribel. His long, questing fingers slithered
under her mesh shirt and poked the soft, yielding flesh around her navel. Under her gag, she swore and
squealed, trying to back away from the fool who was tickling her. She was desperate to tell the other—Marc by the telltale Hip-Hop—to cool it with the probing, tickling fingers and to wait for her to turn so she
could align their roped wrists. Then they could untie each other. But Marc’s fingers got caught in the big
holes in the mesh along Maribel’s right side, and, trying to get unsnarled, he was poking and stroking her
ribs repeatedly. Her muted howls of laughter fell on his covered ears. “Mree!-hee-hee-hee-ngh-ngh-ngh-
mwah-ha-HA-ha-HA-nghf-nghf-Mwah-hah-hah-HAH….”
Pat—already red with laughter and desperately trying to elude her tickler, who, by the telltale
scent of jasmine, she knew to be her boss—stumbled and fell to the carpet. Her tied feet tripped up Sonny,
who fell, with muffled cries of frustration, as well, her shoes slipping off her heels in the bargain. The black woman was dismayed further when she tried to find Pat so she might resume her knot solving. The blonde, though, very relieved not to be tickled, had crawled away, leaving stewing Sonny with a wad of bubble gum stuck on her butt.
4--Change Partners and Laugh
Maribel—her small body racked with suppressed laughter—was trying to back away from Marc’s
relentlessly tickling fingers, still haplessly caught in her shirt. It wasn’t, though, until her retreating feet
met the fallen Sonny’s legs and toppled over them that she was—praying her thanks—freed from his
tickling. Flailing about like a beached whale, her bound hands passed over the ropes looping someone’s
ankles and found themselves caught on a pair of high heels.
Sonny was still wondering how any sensible adult could be so damned ticklish when she felt her shoes, already slipped off her heels in the struggle, being knocked off her stocking feet. Then, the shock of fingers crawling and sliding along the sleek nylon covering her soles caused her to start violently, and she
felt laughter welling up within her and pushing against her gag. “Mreek-mropfit-meh-heh-heh-heh….”
When she attempted to pull her feet away, the fingers became forceful in their pursuit, grabbing her toes
(which she found hilarious) and scrambling over her sensitive heels to fumble with the ropes at her ankles.
Sonny, despite her fit of giggling, was aware that a co-worker was trying to undo the knots there, but the fingers sliding upon the nylon on top of her feet tickled unbearably, and, try as she might, she couldn’t keep
her feet still. “Mmeep-mraha-ngh-ha-ha-ngh….” The tickles caused her to recall that sometimes, during
foreplay, she would ask a lover to tickle her. But she’d never been tickled while being so helplessly bound,
blindfolded, and gagged, and while feeling so stressed in a situation out of her control. Before she knew it,
her protests surrendered to shudders of laughter. “Mrugh-mropfit-ngh-ngh-mwah-pha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha….”
Maribel quickly registered that her fingers had found her boss when they felt smooth nylon
covering two large feet. She, however, didn’t immediately glom to the fact that her efforts to gain a hold
upon the knots binding Sonny’s ankles were tickling the poor woman sappy. The blindfolded Latina was
frustrated by the difficulty in gaining purchase on the ropes with her back to Sonny’s ankles. Making it
worse was her inability to tell the jittery woman what she was doing so she would be still. It wasn’t until
Sonny’s thrashing about sent Maribel’s waving fingers skittering up the boss’ hosed legs to the back of her
knees--heightening the giggles filtered through her gag accordingly--—that Maribel thought, “Ay! Why won’t la loca be still? Unless… this big black boss lady’s ticklish like a nina!”
As a sly, unbidden smile spread ‘neath her gag, Maribel decided to try moving further up Sonny’s
back so she could work at the ropes tying Sonny’s wrists. Backing blindly onto Sonny’s hands, however,
Maribel gave her boss--still a bit dizzy from laughter—the impression that the Latina wanted her own wrists untied. Sonny groped for the ropes, missed, and her outreached fingers dug into the pert younger woman’s back and sides, barely covered by the flimsy mesh shirt. Maribel screamed into her gag
and tried to roll away from Sonny, whose hands became tangled with the little one’s shirt. Sonny was
trying to be more careful not to tickle Maribel than she had been with Pat, but the Latina, through her
gag, was clearly overcome by giggles. “Bmmmph! Uhrmp! Nghhh! Mree-mree-mree-hee-hee-hee….”
Maribel’s merciless siblings used to tease her that she was the most ticklish girl in San Juan when they played as children. They had even devised a cruel game during which they held her down and slowly
counted each of her many terribly ticklish spots. It had been a long while since anyone had her at such
a disadvantage. Sonny’s fingers, seeking only to unravel her wrist ropes, were succeeding more at poking
and prodding her into that childhood state of wild hysteria. Maribel’s desperate response was to push at
Sonny’s sides in self-defense and, caught in a non-stop cycle of mutual tickling, their laughter fought to escape their gags. “No-mmmph-no-mmph-no-tklmph-mmwha-ha-ha-ha….”
Marc, baffled by the disappearance of the coworker he’d been trying to help, stumbled into Pat’s
knees and fell, his tied hands settling upon the blonde’s bare feet. Pat reflexively moved, only to tangle her
ankles with his wrists so that her sensitive soles faced his curious hands. Feeling the other’s knots literally at his fingertips, he began moving his long, dexterous fingers along the feet at hand, in quest for the rope ‘round the ankles. This slow, steady progress of Marc’s digits along Pat’s soft soles, atop her tender feet and upon her skittish ankles caused her to shake with suppressed laughter. “Ngh-ngh-ngh-muphl-biffl-bwah-hah-btzl-sptzl-muphl-heh-heh-heh-heh….” She kept trying to pull her feet away, but they were
caught between his arms.
All her struggling did was cause his stretching, twisting fingers to stroke blindly along the tender arches and balls of her feet and snake under and between her toes. In her hilarity, her balky bra popped open, completely revealing her breasts, and she dragged her face into the carpet, dislodging the bandanna
over her eyes. Her very first sight was that of a frantic, shaking Maribel exchanging tickles with an equally undone Sonny. Seeing this, and hearing the laughter leaking from their gags, made her laugh all the harder
as Marc, with the noblest of intentions, tickled her while doggedly but unsuccessfully seeking to free her ankles.
Continued below......
*The following F>F>F>M (and so forth and so on…) tickle tale is copyright 2001 by the author.
*This saga is a shameless reworking of the anonymous story “Brenda and Sarah,” which has
been posted on the Tickling Media Forum. I hope the uncredited author of that story regards this humble
imitation as the sincerest form of flattery, which it is, as I think that story is a “wow,” a simple delight
telling of an ordinary day at a store that becomes a snowballing tickle nightmare for two unlucky women.
If you wrote the original, and want to punch me in the nose (Don’t sue, I’m broke!), call your shot to
[email protected]. (Indeed, all responses are welcome there.)
*Dedicated to the those of us who instantly think, “tickling” and not “housework” when we see a
feather duster. “Hey, darlin’, heh-heh-heh, there’s a little dust on your toes….”
*This tale is not intended for readers under 18, so I’ll wait while the too young among us click
away. (Insert here sound of me stretching and idly humming.) Are they all gone? Hey, you! Yes, you!
The kid in Indianapolis. Get moving. (More humming.) OK, I think it’s all clear. Let’s be naughty…
ONE has been crooned as the loneliest number. TWO’s company (except on ‘70s TV). THREE’s a crowd (especially if they’re named Moe, Larry, and Curley). This story, though, proves that it takes FOUR hapless people to become…
HELPLESSLY HILARIOUS
by Tee Hee Lawrence
1--Four Bound for Trouble
Pat Pettibone sighed and stuffed another palm-sized scrub brush, another foldable lint brush, and
another collapsible feather duster along with the full-color brochure into the small bright yellow shopping
bag bearing the logo of King Household Brushes. Upon the long table before her stood dozens upon
dozens of the filled bags, their tufts of lime green tissue paper swirling around their blue plastic handles.
At her feet under the table were the four large, seemingly bottomless cartons heaving with brushes and
dusters and brochures. She blew, popped, and withdrew a bright pink chewing gum bubble as she wearily
considered their contents.
As she grabbed another lint brush, her eyes wandered out the window and fixed on a distant knot of folks flying kites in the park across from the industrial park. It was a very warm and bright late April
Saturday, and she was cooped up in the quiet King administrative offices doing some overtime. She needed
the money if she was going to join her friends and bum around Europe the coming summer. This, however, was not the way a fun-loving, nineteen year old 5’, 5” strawberry blonde (who was full-figured but not a bit fat, thank you, and drew eyes when she sprung for stylish clothes and salon visits and when she took care to
make-up properly) truly wanted to spend a model Spring day.
She admitted that she’d skimped on form today, seeing how the office was virtually deserted and
the day was hot almost and the air-conditioning was unavailable. She was dressed in an Ally McBeal T-shirt--far too small for her really, and riding up her middle, revealing the silver ring in her navel—a
mid-thigh blue denim skirt, and raised black leather slides. Fortunately, she had anticipated barefoot
season, and had the salon just last night give her feet the works, including a soak and scrub to remove every
bit of winter callus from her soles. Her feet were pink and soft, her toe nails iridescent with ice blue polish.
She was admiring her feet and catching the sunlight in the rings on her second toes when her nose
was tickled by a sweet scent and she heard a throat clearing behind her. Sondra Hooper. Her boss. Tapping the toe of her high heel. Her hand no doubt set upon her hip, her head certainly tilted at a skeptical angle.
Pat reached down to grab a scrub brush, and Sonny (as everyone in the office called her) leaned over with her two hands on the table and smiled into Pat’s blue eyes.
“Patricia, you’ve been at this almost two hours and these cartons aren’t even half empty,” Sonny
chided in a warm, maternal tone. “Girl, you suffering from spring fever or something? A few weeks ago
you were telling me that you had the winter blues but that the spring would give you energy.”
“Well--well, it does,” insisted Pat, giving way to giggles at Sonny’s rolling eyes. “I guess I’m just
not used to focussing it all yet.”
“I guess not,” conceded Sonny. “Girl, we got to get these done. The chain buyer’s convention
hits town on Monday, and we want one of these goody bags in the hands of each buyer the first day.
You need some help. I’ve still got reports to print out, but Maribel may be through with her back orders.
I’ll give her a call.”
Sonny sat on the corner of a nearby desk, swinging one of her legs, and talked on the intercom.
Pat didn’t really dislike her boss, even if the woman was on her back constantly. Pat didn’t think it was
a racial thing. Sonny was simply the gung-ho office manager of King Brushes. Why else would she be
here on such a lovely off day, dressed as neatly as if it were a regular weekday? Sonny was (Pat guessed)
maybe 35 and about 5’7” tall. She was a shapely, pleasingly featured black woman, with a short cap of
reddish brown curls and bright brown eyes (that displayed a periodic squint that was due to skepticism as much as a slight astigmatism). She wore eyeglasses on a lanyard, but a bit vainly donned them only for
detail work.. She was wearing--neat as always--a canary blouse under a burgundy woolen jacket with a
matching knee length skirt, smoky hose, and polished black high heels. She even had perfumed herself
with a rich jasmine scent.
Sonny ended her phone conversation with a burst of snorts and sputters which widened into a
bray of high-pitched laughter, which she brought under control as she sighed, “Oh, my, that girl! So
funny! She’ll be here in a sec’. ” Everyone in the office made fun of Sonny’s braying laughter, and vied
for the chance to induce it. Pat appreciated that, as she used it to keep track of Sonny’s whereabouts. A
braying boss couldn’t sneak up on her when she was goofing off, as she was a few minutes ago.
Watching the college girl make a show of doubling her efforts with the bags, Sonny smiled and
thought that Pat was bright enough, but just so undisciplined. Still, the kid was an office assistant here
three days a week and going to community college as well, so maybe she should go a little easier on her.
But if only she were motivated, Sonny thought, Pat might really get moving. Pretty girl, but so dreamy and
so lazy, and every so often, she’d make a smart remark that made it clear she thought herself far too good
for the work. Plus, she had an irritating habit of vigorously chewing and snapping bubble gum, as she was
heedlessly doing now.
Just then, Maribel Pino walked in and said in a low, accented voice, “Here I am. What do you
need done?” She tossed her long, lustrous black hair, which she normally wore in a bun, but it was
Saturday, so it was hanging long and loose down past her shoulder blades. She wore a Yankees cap,
a black sports bra under a red mesh T-shirt, which had large reinforced holes along its sides, black jeans,
and her bare feet were in black Chinese slippers, each with a red rose stitched atop. She wore bright red
lipstick and nail polish, which flashed attractively against her olive skin. She had hazel eyes, a sharp small nose and chin, and a small mouth with a sly fierce smile. While she was only 5’2”, she was full chested
and firm buttocked, a smolderingly sensuous 27-year-old single mother of two.
Maybe it was because Maribel was a Latina, or it was because she’d been a teen-aged mother,
with experiences well outside the sheltered suburban life Pat enjoyed, but the two didn’t get along very
well. When they shared a task, as they were now, sitting side by side, their hands occasionally bumping
as they reached for a brush or a bag or some tissue paper, they said little to each other. For Maribel, her
coolness towards Pat stemmed from the day the teen had made some thoughtless remarks about the loud
salsa playing from the Latina’s radio one day. There was no love lost between them, which Sonny thought,
with a chuckle, might keep them both working steadily, to spite each other all afternoon. For her part, she
liked Maribel’s initiative, work ethic, and swagger, and wished a bit would rub off on the college girl. And
Maribel enjoyed joking with Sonny, whom she sensed to be rather playful and soft beneath her office
managerial hard shell.
Just then, the last of the four King Brush employees in the office wing today stomped into
the room, his arms full of flattened company cartons, his head bobbing to the hip hop coursing through
his Walkman. Without a word to the others, Marc Dante snatched up a tape dispenser hanging from his belt
and began to assemble the boxes. He soon had a stack of empties wobbling alongside the women’s
work table.
Sonny began to tell him to try to pack the bags upright without crushing them in the cartons, which should be closed but not taped, when she realized he couldn’t hear a word she said. She yelled,
“Hello?” and waved her violet nailed fingers in front of his face. He slipped off his headphones, received the instructions with a slack jaw, replaced the headphones, and proceeded to follow instructions. He did his
job, but sometimes Sonny felt that talking to the 18 year old high school senior, clad today in his usual
navy work shirt (with his name stitched in red above the pocket and with the company logo on each short
sleeve) and pants, sockless (Well, it was the weekend…) in Timberland moccasins, was like talking to an extraterrestrial.
Marc found the black woman impossibly intimidating, so he dreaded these occasions when
he had to work with her staring at him. It was all he could do to keep his eyes from dwelling on her
full breasts straining against her blouse or her shapely, stocking-clad legs. He was certain she could
easily read his shy, lustful thoughts about her, and that, if he met her gaze for more than absolutely
necessary, the resulting hard-on would get him fired—and maybe sued for harassment.
Maribel smiled at Marc, and he gave a shy smile back. She thought he’d be a stud, what with
his big bedroom brown eyes, cute, cleft chin, wide shoulders, long, graceful hands, and pleasing
butt, if only he’d put a lot more meat on his frail 5’10’ frame—he couldn’t weigh that much more than
Blondie here—and have someone style his unruly sandy curls. Plus, he needed some cojones, some fire
in the belly, meet a girl’s gaze squarely, and talk like he meant it, instead of always mumbling to the
floor.
Frankly, Maribel baffled Marc. He had trouble understanding her accented English, found her
aggressive body language threatening, and wished she wouldn’t press upon him so many tapes of Latin soul
that he pretended to listen to. Still, he admired her small round butt, rather firm for the mother of two kids. Figuring that thinking wasn’t too safe either, he tried to focus on bags and cartons.
Pat didn’t like Marc because she was sure he wanted to hit on her but didn’t have the balls to do it.
They would see each other sometimes in a mall or at the diner, and she felt that he was plotting an exit strategy as soon as she said hello to him. Yet, she’d catch him sometimes, as he was doing now-- between
stuffing the bags of brushes in the cartons--examining her out of the corners of his eyes. Or at least she
thought he was. She couldn’t decide if her goosebumps meant she was creeped out or excited.
Marc thought Pat felt he was a nerd, a high school wet-nose, while she was a social magnet on
the community college campus, where there must be any number of guys hovering around her. He wished
he played a tough sport (and didn’t merely run cross-country), or drove a stock car, or had a cobra tattooed on his bicep. He wished he could keep from peeking at her bare legs, and that she’d stop sliding her feet
out of her shoes, and stop wiggling them so that the sunlight wouldn’t flash off her toe ring
2--Three Put Four into One Pickle
Suddenly, three ski-masked figures burst into the room and, wielding firearms, loudly ordered
the four stunned employees to kiss the carpet. All four—not wishing to spill any blood for King Brushes-- quickly did so, though Maribel had to drag Marc down, as his headphones had kept him from paying the gunmen any notice. Sonny, struggling to keep a calm, even tone, asked, “Wha-what’s this all about? What do you want? This is no bank!”
“Lady, shut up and lie still,” one of the intruders shouted at her, and, after grabbing the key ring
clipped to the belt of her skirt, pushed her down prone. “Normally this place is quiet as a tomb on weekends, and we figured today would be no different. But you four being here save us the trouble of busting locks and monkeying with alarms, and your cars in back keep our van from lookin’ conspicuous.”
“Mira—look, mister,” said Maribel, her kids in mind, “please, we’re just poor working people.”
With a crack of gum, Pat added, leaning up on her elbows, “Yeah, we just work here. With brushes for crissakes.”
“That’s it!” shouted a second masked marauder. “If you can’t control yourselves, we’ll help ya!
So you won’t do or see or say anything you might regret. So RE-LAAAAX!” —He was still shouting! —
“and you won’t get hurt!”
“Boy, it’s a good thing there’s a discount outlet across the road,’ the third intruder observed
as they set about restraining their four prisoners. “We were able to pick up lots of rope and bandannas
and handkerchiefs for a song.”
“Shuddup, willya?” cried the first bandit. “Just tie these clowns up.”
Sonny was straining to recognize the masked voices. She figured that more than one might have been recently laid-off King employees. There had been a recent production slowdown and layoffs (which kept the adjoining factory and warehouse quiet and deserted on weekends, and usually, but for this
particular Saturday, the office, too). These guys were exploiting the firm’s extremely lax security today.
She tried to keep them talking, saying, “Now, look…,” before she had a cloth stuffed in her mouth and a
bandanna pulled across it and knotted behind her neck. Then another folded bandanna was drawn across
her eyes and secured behind her head. Her wrists were roughly held behind the small of her back and
roped together and secured with a skillful knot. The same skill was displayed in the loops binding her
ankles tightly together.
Pat, Maribel, and Marc were gagged, blindfolded, and tied in similar fashion. The intruder handling Pat first had her spit out her healthy pink wad of bubble gum, which he stuck on her nose before proceeding. Marc’s manhandler absurdly left the kid’s headphones over his ears when his blindfold was
secured, and his Hip-Hop concert continued unabated while he was being trussed up. Once she was gagged, Maribel began a stream of invective in Spanish and English that was muffled, which was “’Lucky for all of us,” thought Sonny. “The wrong word could set these guys off.”
Nosing around, one of the intruders found nearby a spacious carpeted windowless room, which was used for meetings and storage. The four helpless captives were hustled inside and released to clumsily
lurch about the center of the room. Along the walls were rows of folded chairs, a few folded tables, and
a couple of sets of tall metal shelves, upon which rested large cartons. After one yanked the phone off of
the wall, the robbers slammed the door shut and, swearing at the profusion of keys on Sonny’s ring, locked the four within.
Now, virtually rubbing their hands with glee, the burglars went about looting as much office equipment as their little nondescript van could hold, and forgot all about their prisoners tucked away in
the storeroom. In rapid order, they drove off, after tossing their realistic toy Magnums into the van with
the loot…
3--The Boss Challenges Standing Pat
If the robbers had seemed to show one mercy to their captives, it was the fact that they had left
the overhead florescent lights in the storeroom on when they’d slammed the door shut. Of course, being
blindfolded, Pat and Sondra and Maribel and Marc couldn’t appreciate the gesture. They were scattered,
standing unsteadily yards apart from each other, trying vainly to utter coherent speech through their gags
and finding little give to their bonds. Each was trying to speak, for it would have been a great comfort if
each could have located and reassured the others. They didn’t even know if all of them were here safely
together. They were angry and aching and anxious, too, that the hoods, perhaps, weren’t through with them.
Sonny especially was concerned, as she felt responsible for calling her three colleagues to work
that day, leaving all four of them at the mercy of three determined criminals. It was a few hours still before
the security service would notice that King’s evening alarm hadn’t set been at 6 P.M., as she had scheduled that morning. She hoped the industrial park patrol, seeing cars parked behind the office— lately unusual on
Saturdays--might soon stop and curiously check in the office, and rescue them. That could, however, be a
long way off. The robbers—who, while storing the four, had floridly discussed whether they should harm or perhaps even permanently silence their prisoners—might return to toy with them so more. Still, she
couldn’t hear them now, and she thought it time to try and free herself. After testing her firm bonds, she realized it might be easier to locate one of the others, and to maneuver herself so as to untie that person. Blind, hampered by her gag and her severely restricted mobility, she shuffled about, cocking her head
for sounds of the others…
Maribel was so livid that the brutes had mistreated a hardworking single mother that she swore to strangle them with her bare hands when she got free. She was also so afraid that she assured God that
if she survived this ordeal she’d stop yelling at or hitting the kids and Guillermo would get that baseball mitt and Nadia that Digimon cart they’d been nagging her for. Fired thus by anger and fear, Maribel
struggled tensely in her bonds to no avail. She quickly decided that, if she couldn’t free herself, she might
be able to move close enough to another so they might free each other. Hearing the Hip-Hop leaking from
Marc’s headphones, she swayed uneasily towards the sound…
Marc was ticked off enough by the fact that he couldn’t free his hands to change the CD in his Walkman: he’d heard this disc twice already. The embarrassment he felt, however, at being roped, sightless
and voiceless, like the wimp he was always trying not to be—before three girls even!—made him want to
bellow into his gag, which he did. He just wanted to get free and get the hell away. Those robbers, though,
were pros and they’d tied him damn good—too good for him to untie himself. And he’d be like this forever if he waited for the women to help him or free themselves. Well, he might find a sharp edge to cut his ropes upon if he felt about, so he ponderously began backing up…
Pat was trying not to think about having to pee. It wasn’t actually that her bladder was anywhere
near distress; it was really the thought that she was helpless and tied in a room with no bathroom and she
couldn’t shout for help. Also her T-shirt, in all her struggles, had really ridden up and was bunched above
her bra, the balky clasp of which she felt had come loose, and her breasts were threatening to tumble out in
plain sight. She felt sure her co-workers had been blindfolded as she had, so they couldn’t see. But she
didn’t want the robbers to get any wrong ideas about her. And her new and not cheap leather slides had,
in the confusion, slipped off of her bare feet. One of those hoods might decide to take them as a present for his @#%$. She was shuffling her feet awkwardly around on the carpet, hoping to find her slides, when she felt someone’s fingers wiggling across her back…
Behind her back, Sonny felt her hands brush against bare flesh and thought, “All right! ‘ Found someone! ‘ Wonder who?” Trying to orient herself, her fingers roamed over the smooth skin. Sonny heard “Meeep! Ngh! Muhr! Mwah-ha-ha!” and the other seemed to jerk away. “Hey, stop!” thought Sonny. “Can’t you sense what I’m trying to do? How can I untie you if you don’t keep still?” Cursing her gag, she bumped again into the other, trying awkwardly with her bound hands to restrain the other.
Pat, for her part, was laughing giddily into her gag, as the persistent fingers stroked across her
exposed back and dug into her tender sides. For a moment, in her hysteria, she thought one of the robbers had returned to torture her by tickling! Then, her own hands felt the ropes wrapped around the other’s
wrists. Why would one of her coworkers tickle her? Couldn’t that one tell, from her muffled shrieks of laughter, how ticklish she was? This was no time to be fooling around! If only she could get rid of this gag and shout at the tickler to stop! All she could do, though, was laugh into it, “Mmmphh-bmmphf-mwah-mwah-hah-HAH-HAH-hah….”
Sonny heard the stifled shrieks, and she finally recognized them as laughter. “Well, of all the idiotic things!” she thought. “Here I am trying to get you loose and you think it’s a joke! Get a grip and
hold still!” The manager realized that her young coworker (she was guessing Pat, by the shrieks) was probably disoriented and panicked, but she was hoping she’d calm down and work with her. (“If only I could speak…”) She worked even harder to blindly position herself within reach of the knots binding the girl’s wrists. Her furiously working fingers couldn’t help but poke the other’s back and sides. The muffled
laughter seemed to increase as her efforts did. “Ngh-ngh-ngh-muphl-pufl-pwah-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH….”
Some yards away, Marc backed into the advancing Maribel. His long, questing fingers slithered
under her mesh shirt and poked the soft, yielding flesh around her navel. Under her gag, she swore and
squealed, trying to back away from the fool who was tickling her. She was desperate to tell the other—Marc by the telltale Hip-Hop—to cool it with the probing, tickling fingers and to wait for her to turn so she
could align their roped wrists. Then they could untie each other. But Marc’s fingers got caught in the big
holes in the mesh along Maribel’s right side, and, trying to get unsnarled, he was poking and stroking her
ribs repeatedly. Her muted howls of laughter fell on his covered ears. “Mree!-hee-hee-hee-ngh-ngh-ngh-
mwah-ha-HA-ha-HA-nghf-nghf-Mwah-hah-hah-HAH….”
Pat—already red with laughter and desperately trying to elude her tickler, who, by the telltale
scent of jasmine, she knew to be her boss—stumbled and fell to the carpet. Her tied feet tripped up Sonny,
who fell, with muffled cries of frustration, as well, her shoes slipping off her heels in the bargain. The black woman was dismayed further when she tried to find Pat so she might resume her knot solving. The blonde, though, very relieved not to be tickled, had crawled away, leaving stewing Sonny with a wad of bubble gum stuck on her butt.
4--Change Partners and Laugh
Maribel—her small body racked with suppressed laughter—was trying to back away from Marc’s
relentlessly tickling fingers, still haplessly caught in her shirt. It wasn’t, though, until her retreating feet
met the fallen Sonny’s legs and toppled over them that she was—praying her thanks—freed from his
tickling. Flailing about like a beached whale, her bound hands passed over the ropes looping someone’s
ankles and found themselves caught on a pair of high heels.
Sonny was still wondering how any sensible adult could be so damned ticklish when she felt her shoes, already slipped off her heels in the struggle, being knocked off her stocking feet. Then, the shock of fingers crawling and sliding along the sleek nylon covering her soles caused her to start violently, and she
felt laughter welling up within her and pushing against her gag. “Mreek-mropfit-meh-heh-heh-heh….”
When she attempted to pull her feet away, the fingers became forceful in their pursuit, grabbing her toes
(which she found hilarious) and scrambling over her sensitive heels to fumble with the ropes at her ankles.
Sonny, despite her fit of giggling, was aware that a co-worker was trying to undo the knots there, but the fingers sliding upon the nylon on top of her feet tickled unbearably, and, try as she might, she couldn’t keep
her feet still. “Mmeep-mraha-ngh-ha-ha-ngh….” The tickles caused her to recall that sometimes, during
foreplay, she would ask a lover to tickle her. But she’d never been tickled while being so helplessly bound,
blindfolded, and gagged, and while feeling so stressed in a situation out of her control. Before she knew it,
her protests surrendered to shudders of laughter. “Mrugh-mropfit-ngh-ngh-mwah-pha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha….”
Maribel quickly registered that her fingers had found her boss when they felt smooth nylon
covering two large feet. She, however, didn’t immediately glom to the fact that her efforts to gain a hold
upon the knots binding Sonny’s ankles were tickling the poor woman sappy. The blindfolded Latina was
frustrated by the difficulty in gaining purchase on the ropes with her back to Sonny’s ankles. Making it
worse was her inability to tell the jittery woman what she was doing so she would be still. It wasn’t until
Sonny’s thrashing about sent Maribel’s waving fingers skittering up the boss’ hosed legs to the back of her
knees--heightening the giggles filtered through her gag accordingly--—that Maribel thought, “Ay! Why won’t la loca be still? Unless… this big black boss lady’s ticklish like a nina!”
As a sly, unbidden smile spread ‘neath her gag, Maribel decided to try moving further up Sonny’s
back so she could work at the ropes tying Sonny’s wrists. Backing blindly onto Sonny’s hands, however,
Maribel gave her boss--still a bit dizzy from laughter—the impression that the Latina wanted her own wrists untied. Sonny groped for the ropes, missed, and her outreached fingers dug into the pert younger woman’s back and sides, barely covered by the flimsy mesh shirt. Maribel screamed into her gag
and tried to roll away from Sonny, whose hands became tangled with the little one’s shirt. Sonny was
trying to be more careful not to tickle Maribel than she had been with Pat, but the Latina, through her
gag, was clearly overcome by giggles. “Bmmmph! Uhrmp! Nghhh! Mree-mree-mree-hee-hee-hee….”
Maribel’s merciless siblings used to tease her that she was the most ticklish girl in San Juan when they played as children. They had even devised a cruel game during which they held her down and slowly
counted each of her many terribly ticklish spots. It had been a long while since anyone had her at such
a disadvantage. Sonny’s fingers, seeking only to unravel her wrist ropes, were succeeding more at poking
and prodding her into that childhood state of wild hysteria. Maribel’s desperate response was to push at
Sonny’s sides in self-defense and, caught in a non-stop cycle of mutual tickling, their laughter fought to escape their gags. “No-mmmph-no-mmph-no-tklmph-mmwha-ha-ha-ha….”
Marc, baffled by the disappearance of the coworker he’d been trying to help, stumbled into Pat’s
knees and fell, his tied hands settling upon the blonde’s bare feet. Pat reflexively moved, only to tangle her
ankles with his wrists so that her sensitive soles faced his curious hands. Feeling the other’s knots literally at his fingertips, he began moving his long, dexterous fingers along the feet at hand, in quest for the rope ‘round the ankles. This slow, steady progress of Marc’s digits along Pat’s soft soles, atop her tender feet and upon her skittish ankles caused her to shake with suppressed laughter. “Ngh-ngh-ngh-muphl-biffl-bwah-hah-btzl-sptzl-muphl-heh-heh-heh-heh….” She kept trying to pull her feet away, but they were
caught between his arms.
All her struggling did was cause his stretching, twisting fingers to stroke blindly along the tender arches and balls of her feet and snake under and between her toes. In her hilarity, her balky bra popped open, completely revealing her breasts, and she dragged her face into the carpet, dislodging the bandanna
over her eyes. Her very first sight was that of a frantic, shaking Maribel exchanging tickles with an equally undone Sonny. Seeing this, and hearing the laughter leaking from their gags, made her laugh all the harder
as Marc, with the noblest of intentions, tickled her while doggedly but unsuccessfully seeking to free her ankles.
Continued below......
