Journia
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Coochie Coochie: A Future Erotica Novel (Nothing to do with Vaginas)
Okay so tonight, I decided, I'd write a tickling erotica novel, and see what everyone things of it. I've written almost ten pages of it already since two o'clock, so it is going well. But I want to know what you good viewers will think of it. So, for your enjoyment, I'm presenting to you, the first part of chapter one of, "Coochie Coochie: A Tickling Horror Story
Cana was afraid of her fate. She stood in the darkness, her hands chained to the ceiling above, and her feet to the floor below. She could feel the manacles, cold steel, through the denim of her foot length jeans. The nearly six foot tall university student with dark orange skin and long black hair, had been kidnapped after a party on campus, and drugged. She remembered that part clearly, as well as the fading into the darkness that she underwent. Aside from that, the drug was slowly wearing off, and giving her a mild headache as it did so. Sweat was pooling in her deep underarms as it rolled down her neck from her overheated hair that Cana swore she’d cut the week before, and soaked through her yellow short sleeved polyester shirt.
Where am I? Cana thought as she looked around in vain. She could see nothing in this darkness. Not even an inch in front of her. It was that totally dark. It was like what might be in Hell, a total darkness, where fire that is equally dark, lies in waiting to pounce upon you, and devour you in a burning, sulphuric embrace that completely envelops you. Cana wanted to scream, she wanted to shout, but something told her not to. It also told her if she did then she’d not live long enough to cherish the release of freedom.
But being the headstrong girl she was, Cana didn’t listen to that little warning voice. She shouted for help, screamed for release, and the individuals three floors up, hearing her cries, put down what they were doing and began to slowly make their way down the stairs to her. Rubbing their hands together as they descended in a unified, orderly fashion.
“Cana,” Marie said as she opened the dormitory door. The five and a half foot tall woman with the faint pink complexion mixed with a light brown opened the door. She was dressed in a black knee length skirt which matched her hair and her shadowed eyes. Her blouse was light gray, and had an oxford university insignia on the breast, just above the level of the heart.
Marie stepped into the room to find Cana’s belongings spread about the bed. “My word,” Marie’s favorite phrase, “What on earth happened here?” She knelt to pick up a dictionary Cana had bought a week prior. A soft click alerted her to someone else in the room. She whirled around to see a tall, police officer. He was thin with a set of wide shoulders.
“Who are you?” Marie asked nervously.
“I was about to ask you the same question Miss.” the officer said to her. “You’re trespassing on a crime scene.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “This is my friend Cana’s room.”
“Cana Fadruthiya?”
“Yeah,”
“She has been missing for forty-eight hours ma’am, have you seen her since Friday evening?”
“No, I assumed she left with her boyfriend.”
“Well, her boyfriend alerted us my dear.”
“So, he and you all think she’s gone?”
“No one else has been able to spot her around so yes, we believe she is gone, and we’re trying to find her.”
“Oh, my word…”
The door opened behind Cana, and three shadows entered the room, the clicking of the door as it shut snatched hope away from Cana’s optimistically beating heart. Then the door opened again, the figures left, and shut the door behind them. It felt like hours before she felt the sudden caress of the fingers along the back of her thighs.
The sensation made her jump slightly she gasped in terror, and tried to see who was touching her. The darkness told no secrets. Then she felt another brush along her thighs. She hopped as far as her chained feet would allow her, in the vain hope that the sensation would remain behind and away from her. The vain hope was just that. Her action seemed to make the caress more aggressive. It now felt as I a whole hand was sliding up and down the back of her jean clad legs. From the top of her buttocks, to the top of her calves. For a whole minute, the hand did this in varying degrees of firmness, growing from a hard press, to a soft, light stroking, almost panning the hand over her flesh; then there was the swift sharp shock of a smack on her buttocks.
“Jesus Christ!” She shouted as the pain flared in her rear. She was already fearful of the situation she was in, fearing for her life, wondering who it was that was stroking her buns, and then the smack comes along as if to say, “Oh, you think you’re scared now, just wait!” and then plants itself on her butt like a sloppy wet kiss from an old grandmother.
Cana felt a hand moving up the side of her leg, walking up like a small person. And it stopped just below her belt. For a period of thirty seconds, there was nothing but silence and the pressure of a person’s fingers resting on her jeans. Cana wanted so badly to scream, but she was unsure of what that would cause. She had shouted for help once, and these people came down, and now she was being fondled. She breathed a weary sigh. And then the fingers briskly tickled her hips. Cana squealed and fell bacward into the person who had tickled her. The individual didn’t push her away, but held her in an almost caring fashion, one arm was around her hips, briskly stroking her hips, and another was around her tummy where, small as it was, it had small love handles. And the hand on her tummy was tickling those.
Cana wriggled in the nerve stimulating grip of her kidnapper. If the light were on an onlooker might see that her eyes were turned upward, and her mouth was a portait of a perfect smile. Her dark lips contrasting on her orange skin, and middle-sized white teeth exposed. She couldn’t help but wriggle and laugh, it was as if the kidnapper knew just where to tickle her. Few people know that her most ticklish spots were her left hip and her love handles.
“Aha! No, what is this for?” Cana whined between bouts of cackling, she tried to pull out of the kidnapper’s grip, but there was little she could do with the perilous strokes drawing her concentration. “Stop please!”
There was no reply from the tickling person behind her. Whoever it was, kept digging their fingers into her hip and love handles, causing Cana to start flopping like a fish on a line as it’s taken out of the water. In fact it was this very idea that caused the tickler to stop suddenly and whisper in her ear.
“Clownfish,” the voice said. It was soft, faint, almost feminine. It was odd to Cana; she had never heard
A voice like that. But she knew it was a man.
“Please sir, please let me go,” she said as she tried to undo her bonds to no avail. “Please, I’ll do anything, anything you want, just let me go please!” His hands released her hip and tummy, Cana sighed with relief.
“Laugh for me, Clownfish.” he said before his fingers made a landing in her deep armpits. The scream she gave was one of electrified terror, and it only served to excite her captor even more.
Mandoline Concerto in G-Major played in Dante’s room. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders and skin the complexion of boiled egg flesh. He was stretched out on a long couch in his house off the highway, in the deep forest a good two miles away from the road. He wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. His black loafers looked like they had never been worn outside the house. He moved his left index finger to the beat of the mandolin. During the pauses in music, Dante could hear Cana’s squeals of laughter, and the occasional, “Yes! Yes, I’m a Clownfish!” followed by a crescendo of “hee hees” and rapid fire “hoohoohoos”. It wasn’t uncommon for him to hear laughter in his life. Cana was but one of hundreds of women whom he had kidnapped and held captive as he had them tickled until their nerves gave out or until they went mad. He had audio and video recording of the numerous episodes. A night vision camera with infrared lighting in a dark oubliette gave the young wealthy man a wonderful view of what befell the women he collected.
The piece of music finished, and Dante listened with aroused enjoyment at Cana’s pleas for mercy which weren’t far ahead of horrible laughter. Making her pleas seem like a joke. A tease even. Offering to do whatever the kidnapper wanted, and then yanking the promise back with a hearty laugh.
But Cana wasn’t his favourite by far. Dante closed his eyes and reminisced about the middle aged construction worker he had kidnapped outside of the union building. A brazen act in anyone’s book. He had his way with her in his living room, bound to the chair he now stretched out in, and slowly removing her hat, and watching her dirty blond hair as he removed hervest by cutting it with a pair of scissors, and delightfully and sadistically walking his fingers around first her ribs, then her armpits.
Michelle Brougham was her name, I recall. Dante thought to himself. Ah, what a wonderfully sensitive form she had. He relived the moments when he removed her work boots. He could feel the heat, from standing all day and smelled the stench of accumulated sweat. He pulled off her wet socks and touched one of the soles of her feet. Her foot curled and wrinkled. So many wrinkles… Michelle giggled with fear, and then screamed as Dante licked her sole with the vigour of a hungry dog lapping up honey, and the nimbleness and elegant motions of a woman doing an oral sex act.
His tongue slid along her heels and painted her soles, almost writing a message in Arabic with his saliva. His tongue enjoyed the ridges of wrinkles that she made as she scrunched her feet and flexed them. It was like licking the crème off of a lemon meringue pie. Then he slid his tongue in between each toe. He rotated it and wiggled it and enjoyed the woman’s shrieks of laughter and moans of what might have been pleasure, or acceptance of her fate. After finishing with her feet, he returned to her red shirted upper body, digging into her ribs with the ferocity of a lion, and feeling her hips buck under his crotch.
“Fuck!” the woman screamed, “Get off of me or I‘m going to kill you!”
“I don’t thik you’ll be killing me tonight,” Dante said as he leaned closer to her face. She was at least forty-three. He could tell by the wrinkles. “I think you’ll probably die laughing.” He looked her right in the eyes as he dug in her sweaty under arms. She looked at him for as long as she could before she fell into another deluge of laughter, precluded by a loud, “Shit!”. Her legs flailed around and the vibrations only made the situation sexier for Dante.
“Stop it please!” Michelle cackled and begged.
“Only if you’ll let me tickle you more.”
“No!”
“Then I’ll not stop now.” He smiled. He leaned close to her ear as he slowed the tickles and whispered, “but I have the power anyway, so, why would I ask you?” A tear rolled out of Michelle’s eyes as he said this. “Oh, does the hottie feel bad? I’ll give you a kiss.” He pulled up her shirt to just under her large breasts, and he began to blow raspberries on her tummy and digging his tongue into her navel. It was as if an laughing gas bomb exploded in her belly the way her laughter rolled out of her mouth.
Dante woke from his daydream and rose to his feet. He walked from the third floor to the basement level. Here he went to the room where Cana was. By now she was crying in pain; and she wanted desperately to be free. Dante could feel it. He almost felt sorry for her. But he knew people like her were not worth the struggle it was to save her. To free her from bonds she so willingly put herself into, from the day she came of age with the personality she had. Releasing her back into a world like this was mad in Dante’s view. The previous tickler left Cana fifteen minutes before Dante descended. When the door opened, Cana looked toward the door, she was turned halfway to it. Her eyes were pleading, tears trailing her face, eyes shining like dark gems in the light of the corridor.
“Please,” she whined, “don’t tickle me anymore.”
“Don’t worry,” Dante said calmly, “I won’ tickle you anymore.”
“Th-thank you,” Cana said as she closed her eyes. She so wanted to die right there. She felt the fingers of this new visitor on her chin as it lifted her head up. She opened her eyes to look at the man’s face that was half hidden in darkness. He smiled.
“I won’t tickle you any more than my assistant did,” Cana’s eyes grew in terror, and Dante put both hands on her sides, and began stroking her love handles Cana began chuckling uncontrollably. Stomping her bound feet and trying to move away from Dante’s nimble fingers.
“I like your sides,” he said as he looked into her eyes, “a little adipose tissue on a skinny Indian woman such as yourself makes you look quite attractive. Of course, I have more of an affinity to Indian women. My first love was an actress I met in Mumbai.”
Okay so tonight, I decided, I'd write a tickling erotica novel, and see what everyone things of it. I've written almost ten pages of it already since two o'clock, so it is going well. But I want to know what you good viewers will think of it. So, for your enjoyment, I'm presenting to you, the first part of chapter one of, "Coochie Coochie: A Tickling Horror Story
Coochie Coochie
A Tickling Horror Story
Pt. 1
M.C. Laphar
A Tickling Horror Story
Pt. 1
M.C. Laphar
Cana was afraid of her fate. She stood in the darkness, her hands chained to the ceiling above, and her feet to the floor below. She could feel the manacles, cold steel, through the denim of her foot length jeans. The nearly six foot tall university student with dark orange skin and long black hair, had been kidnapped after a party on campus, and drugged. She remembered that part clearly, as well as the fading into the darkness that she underwent. Aside from that, the drug was slowly wearing off, and giving her a mild headache as it did so. Sweat was pooling in her deep underarms as it rolled down her neck from her overheated hair that Cana swore she’d cut the week before, and soaked through her yellow short sleeved polyester shirt.
Where am I? Cana thought as she looked around in vain. She could see nothing in this darkness. Not even an inch in front of her. It was that totally dark. It was like what might be in Hell, a total darkness, where fire that is equally dark, lies in waiting to pounce upon you, and devour you in a burning, sulphuric embrace that completely envelops you. Cana wanted to scream, she wanted to shout, but something told her not to. It also told her if she did then she’d not live long enough to cherish the release of freedom.
But being the headstrong girl she was, Cana didn’t listen to that little warning voice. She shouted for help, screamed for release, and the individuals three floors up, hearing her cries, put down what they were doing and began to slowly make their way down the stairs to her. Rubbing their hands together as they descended in a unified, orderly fashion.
“Cana,” Marie said as she opened the dormitory door. The five and a half foot tall woman with the faint pink complexion mixed with a light brown opened the door. She was dressed in a black knee length skirt which matched her hair and her shadowed eyes. Her blouse was light gray, and had an oxford university insignia on the breast, just above the level of the heart.
Marie stepped into the room to find Cana’s belongings spread about the bed. “My word,” Marie’s favorite phrase, “What on earth happened here?” She knelt to pick up a dictionary Cana had bought a week prior. A soft click alerted her to someone else in the room. She whirled around to see a tall, police officer. He was thin with a set of wide shoulders.
“Who are you?” Marie asked nervously.
“I was about to ask you the same question Miss.” the officer said to her. “You’re trespassing on a crime scene.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “This is my friend Cana’s room.”
“Cana Fadruthiya?”
“Yeah,”
“She has been missing for forty-eight hours ma’am, have you seen her since Friday evening?”
“No, I assumed she left with her boyfriend.”
“Well, her boyfriend alerted us my dear.”
“So, he and you all think she’s gone?”
“No one else has been able to spot her around so yes, we believe she is gone, and we’re trying to find her.”
“Oh, my word…”
The door opened behind Cana, and three shadows entered the room, the clicking of the door as it shut snatched hope away from Cana’s optimistically beating heart. Then the door opened again, the figures left, and shut the door behind them. It felt like hours before she felt the sudden caress of the fingers along the back of her thighs.
The sensation made her jump slightly she gasped in terror, and tried to see who was touching her. The darkness told no secrets. Then she felt another brush along her thighs. She hopped as far as her chained feet would allow her, in the vain hope that the sensation would remain behind and away from her. The vain hope was just that. Her action seemed to make the caress more aggressive. It now felt as I a whole hand was sliding up and down the back of her jean clad legs. From the top of her buttocks, to the top of her calves. For a whole minute, the hand did this in varying degrees of firmness, growing from a hard press, to a soft, light stroking, almost panning the hand over her flesh; then there was the swift sharp shock of a smack on her buttocks.
“Jesus Christ!” She shouted as the pain flared in her rear. She was already fearful of the situation she was in, fearing for her life, wondering who it was that was stroking her buns, and then the smack comes along as if to say, “Oh, you think you’re scared now, just wait!” and then plants itself on her butt like a sloppy wet kiss from an old grandmother.
Cana felt a hand moving up the side of her leg, walking up like a small person. And it stopped just below her belt. For a period of thirty seconds, there was nothing but silence and the pressure of a person’s fingers resting on her jeans. Cana wanted so badly to scream, but she was unsure of what that would cause. She had shouted for help once, and these people came down, and now she was being fondled. She breathed a weary sigh. And then the fingers briskly tickled her hips. Cana squealed and fell bacward into the person who had tickled her. The individual didn’t push her away, but held her in an almost caring fashion, one arm was around her hips, briskly stroking her hips, and another was around her tummy where, small as it was, it had small love handles. And the hand on her tummy was tickling those.
Cana wriggled in the nerve stimulating grip of her kidnapper. If the light were on an onlooker might see that her eyes were turned upward, and her mouth was a portait of a perfect smile. Her dark lips contrasting on her orange skin, and middle-sized white teeth exposed. She couldn’t help but wriggle and laugh, it was as if the kidnapper knew just where to tickle her. Few people know that her most ticklish spots were her left hip and her love handles.
“Aha! No, what is this for?” Cana whined between bouts of cackling, she tried to pull out of the kidnapper’s grip, but there was little she could do with the perilous strokes drawing her concentration. “Stop please!”
There was no reply from the tickling person behind her. Whoever it was, kept digging their fingers into her hip and love handles, causing Cana to start flopping like a fish on a line as it’s taken out of the water. In fact it was this very idea that caused the tickler to stop suddenly and whisper in her ear.
“Clownfish,” the voice said. It was soft, faint, almost feminine. It was odd to Cana; she had never heard
A voice like that. But she knew it was a man.
“Please sir, please let me go,” she said as she tried to undo her bonds to no avail. “Please, I’ll do anything, anything you want, just let me go please!” His hands released her hip and tummy, Cana sighed with relief.
“Laugh for me, Clownfish.” he said before his fingers made a landing in her deep armpits. The scream she gave was one of electrified terror, and it only served to excite her captor even more.
Mandoline Concerto in G-Major played in Dante’s room. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders and skin the complexion of boiled egg flesh. He was stretched out on a long couch in his house off the highway, in the deep forest a good two miles away from the road. He wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. His black loafers looked like they had never been worn outside the house. He moved his left index finger to the beat of the mandolin. During the pauses in music, Dante could hear Cana’s squeals of laughter, and the occasional, “Yes! Yes, I’m a Clownfish!” followed by a crescendo of “hee hees” and rapid fire “hoohoohoos”. It wasn’t uncommon for him to hear laughter in his life. Cana was but one of hundreds of women whom he had kidnapped and held captive as he had them tickled until their nerves gave out or until they went mad. He had audio and video recording of the numerous episodes. A night vision camera with infrared lighting in a dark oubliette gave the young wealthy man a wonderful view of what befell the women he collected.
The piece of music finished, and Dante listened with aroused enjoyment at Cana’s pleas for mercy which weren’t far ahead of horrible laughter. Making her pleas seem like a joke. A tease even. Offering to do whatever the kidnapper wanted, and then yanking the promise back with a hearty laugh.
But Cana wasn’t his favourite by far. Dante closed his eyes and reminisced about the middle aged construction worker he had kidnapped outside of the union building. A brazen act in anyone’s book. He had his way with her in his living room, bound to the chair he now stretched out in, and slowly removing her hat, and watching her dirty blond hair as he removed hervest by cutting it with a pair of scissors, and delightfully and sadistically walking his fingers around first her ribs, then her armpits.
Michelle Brougham was her name, I recall. Dante thought to himself. Ah, what a wonderfully sensitive form she had. He relived the moments when he removed her work boots. He could feel the heat, from standing all day and smelled the stench of accumulated sweat. He pulled off her wet socks and touched one of the soles of her feet. Her foot curled and wrinkled. So many wrinkles… Michelle giggled with fear, and then screamed as Dante licked her sole with the vigour of a hungry dog lapping up honey, and the nimbleness and elegant motions of a woman doing an oral sex act.
His tongue slid along her heels and painted her soles, almost writing a message in Arabic with his saliva. His tongue enjoyed the ridges of wrinkles that she made as she scrunched her feet and flexed them. It was like licking the crème off of a lemon meringue pie. Then he slid his tongue in between each toe. He rotated it and wiggled it and enjoyed the woman’s shrieks of laughter and moans of what might have been pleasure, or acceptance of her fate. After finishing with her feet, he returned to her red shirted upper body, digging into her ribs with the ferocity of a lion, and feeling her hips buck under his crotch.
“Fuck!” the woman screamed, “Get off of me or I‘m going to kill you!”
“I don’t thik you’ll be killing me tonight,” Dante said as he leaned closer to her face. She was at least forty-three. He could tell by the wrinkles. “I think you’ll probably die laughing.” He looked her right in the eyes as he dug in her sweaty under arms. She looked at him for as long as she could before she fell into another deluge of laughter, precluded by a loud, “Shit!”. Her legs flailed around and the vibrations only made the situation sexier for Dante.
“Stop it please!” Michelle cackled and begged.
“Only if you’ll let me tickle you more.”
“No!”
“Then I’ll not stop now.” He smiled. He leaned close to her ear as he slowed the tickles and whispered, “but I have the power anyway, so, why would I ask you?” A tear rolled out of Michelle’s eyes as he said this. “Oh, does the hottie feel bad? I’ll give you a kiss.” He pulled up her shirt to just under her large breasts, and he began to blow raspberries on her tummy and digging his tongue into her navel. It was as if an laughing gas bomb exploded in her belly the way her laughter rolled out of her mouth.
Dante woke from his daydream and rose to his feet. He walked from the third floor to the basement level. Here he went to the room where Cana was. By now she was crying in pain; and she wanted desperately to be free. Dante could feel it. He almost felt sorry for her. But he knew people like her were not worth the struggle it was to save her. To free her from bonds she so willingly put herself into, from the day she came of age with the personality she had. Releasing her back into a world like this was mad in Dante’s view. The previous tickler left Cana fifteen minutes before Dante descended. When the door opened, Cana looked toward the door, she was turned halfway to it. Her eyes were pleading, tears trailing her face, eyes shining like dark gems in the light of the corridor.
“Please,” she whined, “don’t tickle me anymore.”
“Don’t worry,” Dante said calmly, “I won’ tickle you anymore.”
“Th-thank you,” Cana said as she closed her eyes. She so wanted to die right there. She felt the fingers of this new visitor on her chin as it lifted her head up. She opened her eyes to look at the man’s face that was half hidden in darkness. He smiled.
“I won’t tickle you any more than my assistant did,” Cana’s eyes grew in terror, and Dante put both hands on her sides, and began stroking her love handles Cana began chuckling uncontrollably. Stomping her bound feet and trying to move away from Dante’s nimble fingers.
“I like your sides,” he said as he looked into her eyes, “a little adipose tissue on a skinny Indian woman such as yourself makes you look quite attractive. Of course, I have more of an affinity to Indian women. My first love was an actress I met in Mumbai.”
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