ElFewja
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Fucked up is not quite the phrase to categorize what this story really is. Yeah, I guess opening with a description like that might scare some people off, haha. But, you know what? This is easily one of my favorite stories; it has a mix of light heartedness, great descriptions (in my opinion), thorough tickling, and above all else an unprecedented uniqueness. It probably is one of the best tickling stories I’ve finished (not that I don’t have 50 more to finish… so many sigh). I really don’t know where I came up with this idea; it was last summer, and I was looking to create something truly original… and started thinking of unique ways to be bound/tickled. Hair is a decent tickling tool, and I’ve never really explored it within my stories… after that it just kind of fell together. This will likely ruin the story for everyone else, but every time I think of this one – and when I was working on it – I kept thinking hair wizard… Hair wizard yeah… to the tune of Day Tripper by the Beatles.
Hair Wizard (or) Hair’s Betrayal by the Hands of the Hair Wizard – (Hair/F Feet)
As Linda kicked her feet, wrapped entirely by the rubber of her sickly blue crocs, she examined the waiting room of this strange barbershop that she had never heard of before today. The room was small, containing only a coat rack to her right – with no coats on the hooks as it was the middle of summer – three chairs, one of which she occupied, and a tiny receptionist’s desk that sat unmanned and littered with assorted papers, which formed a sickly plethora of colors not unlike the clear rows of plastic within a candy store. There was a window – a dusty thing painted with fingerprints in the lower regions and lined with cobwebs at its top corners – but the view of a brick wall that it offered was harrowing, though it did give her the impression, by its hues and drained colors, that the sun had finally begun to set. It was an excessively boring waiting room, she thought as she sighed heavily, hoping her boyfriend Paul’s haircut would soon be over.
For long minutes she contemplated why a barbershop needed a waiting room; when she realized the building was old, she assumed that it had not always been a barbershop. Considering its flow of business - or rather a lack thereof - and how she had never heard of it, it seemed highly likely that the place had just opened, but she could not be sure of that. Before she could begin to hungrily eye the lollipops, those delicious dum-dums flavored every artificial fruit that the mind could imagine – or even be imagined by those imaginations - the door to her right, to the actual barbershop, opened a crack, revealing a thin arm that signaled for her to enter.
With little effort she rose, brushing her curly blond locks from her face as she did so. The distinct clean smell of shampoo grew stronger as she came closer, while with each step the cloth of her skirt danced around and between her legs as if it attempted to forewarn her of impending doom, or else to pull her back to the safety of the waiting room. That man never moved from the other side of the door, nor did he stop smiling that uncomfortable smile that seemed plastered to his face as he held the door open for her. For this, she was glad, as she could feel its weight simply by setting a hand upon it as she passed, solely in the case that the barber decided to remove his grip and allow the door free reign to slam into her. At first, when she realized this balding ghoul of a man worked here, too, she was surprised, but it made sense after some thought. He had, when Paul and herself had dared venture to their local mall, handed to Paul a coupon for a free haircut at this location; Shaggy and economic – he said economic, she said cheap – as he was, he could not refuse the journey, and now she was here, several hours later. But she had not initially expected that same man, who had such a creepy look to him, to be the only one here. Strangely, when she entered the Barber’s room, there was not a soul in sight; unfortunately it had not occurred fast enough for her to defend herself.
From behind she felt a push as firm bony hands grasped her shoulders. She fell forward a little and before she could recover, that man was on top of her again. In a mix of a turn and an attack, she swung her left arm at him, but he easily evaded and invaded her defensive bubble, pushing her into one of the barber’s chairs behind her as he did. A strange thing then occurred; she suddenly, as soon as her arms hit the rests, could feel that her arms were bound tightly against them by a thin but strong substance that seemed to multiply so much and so fast that her entirety of her forearm was enwrapped within that very brief moment. Quickly, she looked down to see hair – her own hair – tightly wound about both her wrists, and, as she noticed the wrists, she felt and then saw her ankles become bound both together to the kick stand so that her feet dangled just beneath that metal bar, bound what by couldn’t be but had to be her own hair, which had seemingly been grasped some form of life, and doing so, decided to rebel against her.
That twig of a man stood before her now, and spoke before she could scream at him. “Yeah, you’d think being a Hair Wizard was entirely useless.”
What he said threw her off so much that she could not respond with more than a solid, “What?” confused as she was by the strange statement.
“I’m a wizard, but I only have control over hair. Drew one of the short straws at Wizarding School. Well, it’s not as bad as the Tooth Wizard.”
For a moment she sat perplexed, then, despite the situation, asked, “Do you mean the Tooth Fairy?”
“Is that what he calls himself, now? That pretentious snob! And do you know what he does with those teeth he steals from children and adults alike? He turns them into golems! Planning world domination, hah! Only he would be so foolishly self-confident to attempt such a thing. I can’t believe he became famous while someone of my caliber was left to… well, no matter. I kind of enjoy doing this evil mastermind monologue, so I want to get back to that. You know, I always thought it was corny in movies and such, but it’s really quite fun when you do it yourself. Anyway, I could use any hair, but I always found it so ironic to use my victim’s hair against them. Oh, and he left, by the way. I told him you left. Called you a *****. I only wanted you anyway. I’m so glad you came with him.”
“What?”
“The mall? It was a setup. I targeted you.”
“Alright… for what?”
“You don’t want to know why I chose you and not someone else?”
“Oh. Uh, sure?”
“Well, you’re pretty. Not that pretty, but still pretty good. But mostly, it was the hair. Hippies are the best for this, you know?”
“Best for what?” She asked, then, realizing how stupid yet dangerous the situation was, took it more seriously. “Let me go!” she shouted at him as he cackled madly.
“Thanks for asking. Best for this.”
She felt something then, on the bottom of her right foot: an irresistible itch that seemed to scratch at her foot, bare as it was within that rubber which restricted its movements, and she could not help but giggle as the spot on her arch just below her ball continued to itch. She laughed at the curious peculiar feeling like a sputtering child grasps for air when drowning in the shallow end of a pool, unaware that he can stand if he only allowed himself.
“See?” that man-twig spoke with glee, “Isn’t it ironic?”
“What? Nohoho! Not rehealy!” she attempted to say, though two single stroke like sensations that felt as if a paint brush ran down the center of her right foot interrupted her.
“Oh. That’s a little disappointing. Oh well. Anyway, let’s get started. Well, let’s you get you started, that is.” He said with an insane laugh as he knelt down by the base of the chair, which caused her to notice for the first time that her hair had extended from her head and penetrated her shoe, writhing about from the looks at it, causing the tickling feeling that she felt. “Let’s just remove these, shall we?”
“Hey man! What the hell!? Don’t touch my shoes!”
“Hah,” he laughed in a mocking way, his nose hairs trembling at the jest, “It’s not like I need to, really, but you’re hardly in a position to order me around, you know?”
“Seriously! Stay away from my fucking feet, you creep!”
“Oops,” he said; just like the simple word he uttered, her shoes were slipped off without even the modest thought of resistance, simultaneously placed on the floor beneath her. “Didn’t quite hear you in time. Darn, huh? Guess you’ll just have to sit here, barefoot. I’m actually amazed at how clean and pretty they are, too.” With those words a look came to his face, reminding her of a hungry wolf; he even went as far as licking his lips while gazing at her jade toenails.
“Thanks,” she replied sourly, entirely creeped out by the barber.
“Oh, you’re quite welcome. And now!” Like a geyser, he shot up, raising his arms above his head as he fell back into the barber’s chair next to hers with finesse. “The show begins.” At those words, her ever sensitive toes became tightly restricted and pulled upwards, so that her soles were stretched and fully exposed. For some reason, the reality of the situation had only then set in; escape was the only word on her mind then as she struggled at the bondage created from herself while that man watched, an eerie light in his eye the entire time that seemed to dance and reflect about merrily in the otherwise fixated gaze that seemed to attempt to devour her.
Though struggling didn’t hurt, her hair might as well have been steel despite how soft it felt, for it held her so tightly that she found herself unable to budge even the slightest of centimeters. A few more seconds of struggle ensued, during which she attempted to at least free her feet, as they seemed to be the dastardly fiend’s targets, but could not manage to so much as even wiggle any of her toes at all. Because of her love for bondage and being made helpless, and therefore forced to endure whatever was fantasized by her current playmate, she had begun to feel that overwhelming half-burning half-tingling sensation well up within her tummy, but fought against it, knowing full well the direness that the situation held for her. It suddenly began, first around her enwrapped toes as each hair that held them came alive, pulsating and rolling about in such a way that tickled far beyond what she had ever though herself capable of feeling, her laughter reflecting this with a mix of surprise and hysterics; that lustful burning sensation raged inside of her stomach as she cried out with raucous laughter. “Ok! Ok!” she shouted between laughs, feeling her endurance for the tickling he must intend for her drain immediately so that she could no longer bear any more, “You can stop now! You can stop! Please!”
“Oh?” Was all the response he had for her, “That much of a reaction from just your toes, hm? Oh, my, you are in quite some trouble.” A flick of strands ran down her left arch, starting at her heel straight to and around her ball several times before returning down the same path; had her foot been free, it would have spasmed out of control, lurking away to hide within the dual protection of thick socks and secure boots, but her hair restricted her attempts to pull away with all of the strength she could ever hope for to that of mere shudders at the passing touch the paint brush like hair, rocking the chair violently against the bolts in the linoleum as a result; for some obscure reason, she recalled all of the paintings she had ever seen then, so that her mind was filled with images of Rembrant and Van Gogh. She decided then that this was what a canvas must feel like; that painters were demonic people who sought some sort of perverse glee by slowly and methodically tracing their hellish, absurdly ticklish brushes across both canvases and the feet of helpless damsels, so that both cried out with such a surge of emotion that would elicit the most response from the intended audience, who would then go home and fantasize about their own canvases and damsels to harass.
“So here’s what I love about this,” he spoke hotly, drawing her back to reality as he leaned over his army rest, intently watching her and clearly enjoying each thrust she made with her upper body in an attempt to free herself, though she was only barely aware of him, her entire focus falling upon her feet and attempting to avoid each new attack that began against them despite the impression she was given that her hair knew exactly how she would dodge or evade, so that her attempts were fruitless. “I’m only suggesting what your hair does, really; just sort of pushing it in the right direction. It’s your hairs’ decision to tickle you, not mine. Isn’t it ironic? You’re tickling yourself and at the same time trying to escape from it, from yourself. From what you’re doing to yourself. Isn’t it fascinating?”
Desperately, she wanted to scream no, not at all, but found herself unable to as unrelenting waves of laughter broke through the docks that were her clenched teeth while the unrelenting storm that created her laughter increased in velocity as more and more tufts of her hair appeared in various spots, torturing her further and further still. All of her focus fell to that of laughing as hard as she could as various parts of her feet were brushed at, causing her at times to turn her head into her armpit and giggle away secretly in an attempt to keep her beautiful laughter to herself. At one point, each of her toes felt her hairs’ treachery, her little toes enveloped fully in the ridiculously maddening touches; at this point she held her eyes shut, attempting to close herself away from the world, but in doing so only enhanced her reception of the touches, forcing herself to laugh still harder than she had been.
After some time, the small tufts of hair multiplied so much that not an inch of her soles or toes remained free of that terrible reign of tickling which besieged her feet, un-harassed until today, when they were forced to endure such a plethora of sensation. At the point which she was unsure if she could possibly endure another second of this pure and absolute torture, she found herself unable to laugh, empty air replacing what should have been giggles as the blazing flames of desire within threatened to engulf her. For a few seconds longer, she endured, managing to stave off insanity, though the seconds might as well have been hours, and then it ended, though she continued to pant for air, devouring what little she could manage to grasp at while she continued to giggle lightly.
Curious as to what had brought on this strange fit of mercy, she managed to raise her hanging head just enough to catch a glimpse of that foul man as he scoured the contents of barbers tools, at last shouting “Aha!” while withdrawing a rather large hairbrush and seemingly misplaced bottle of lotion. “This one is probably my favorite combination,” he explained happily, kneeling by her still bound feet that had completely lost the will to combat against the bondage any longer as he continued to speak, “Just wait! You’ll love this one!”
A schlorp sound met her exhausted ears just before she felt her right foot have that greasy slime rubbed all over its bottom; though she recognized the feeling, it was an unfamiliar one where it now was. Something loud came from behind her, which she normally would have found startling, calling her attention to it, but as she sat there panting, she hardly recognized that there had been any sound at all until she heard a familiar voice shout “Not so fast, villain!” returning her consciousness to reality.
“He’s really not moving that fast.. just so you know...” she muttered somewhat audibly in response to her boyfriends stupid shout.
“Quiet wench!” the all too familiar voice retorted from behind her.
“Clever,” she uttered beneath her breath, finding herself unable to raise her voice any louder than that.
That mobile twig, taken aback with surprise, leapt up, hairbrush in hand as if he were ready to strike. “But how! How did you see through my clever rouse!?”
“Simple, dear barber! I forgot to leave a tip, and returned to do so, when I suddenly heard my poor princess’s cries for help!”
“Twenty minutes later?!” The barber retorted.
“Well. I watched for a while. It was fun and she wasn’t in any real danger.”
“Oh, you’re a real prince, you know that?! A true knight in shining armor!” She shouted at him, realizing that he had sat and watched her be tortured.
“Hush! You were fine!”
“I was not!”
“Oh come on! He was only tickling you a little.”
“It tickled a lot you jerk!”
“Well… I enjoyed watching.”
“Jerk!”
“Words can hurt you know…”
“Silence! Enough of this squabbling! You may have discovered my dark secret, but I still have the upper hand!” Shouted that devil’s barber, rising fully so that he stood tall and straight, menacing her with his mere presence as the light of death seemed to reflect from his eyes. It was true, though; she was still captive, and Paul had no way to combat this man’s witchcraft.
“Except that I have this!” He shouted, proudly brandishing a bottle of hairspray far above his head.
“Hairspray? That’s it? Hairspray? That’s your secret weapon? Your ace in the hole? What the fuck, Paul!? She shouted out at him, but was eventually drowned out by a horrific and chaotic howl that came from the barber.
“No! My one weakness! How did you know?!”
“I found it on the desk in the other room, in a box labeled ‘My only weakness’ alongside a paper with detailed instructions as to how it cripples your sway over hair.”
“Nooooo!” The barber screamed, falling to his knees.
“Really?! I mean, really?” Linda shouted at the barber, unable to voice the thoughts that sprang to her mind.
“And you’ll never discover why, nor will you ever catch me! Away!” With that final word, the mad barber ran out the backdoor and down what probably was a dark, empty street; as Linda could not see much from her chair, she was left to assume these things. Slowly, her hair gave way, releasing her and retracting to its normal length.
“Hey,” Paul spoke simply as he stood by the entrance. Though her eyes smoldered at the stupidity of the situation that had managed to somehow trap her, she returned the pleasantry. “So, uh…” Paul began, but found himself unable to finish, as if he could not discover the words he sought.
“Yeah,” she said in that sarcastic tone that she hoped conveyed she was not interested in dealing with this right now; truthfully, she just wanted to get the hell out of there, but was so drained of energy she found herself unable to rise.
“Can I try doing that to you next time?” The words came to her as she bent down and re-equiped her footwear, her right foot sliding about within the croc as a result of the lotion.
For a few moments, she sat frozen in the process as the memories of those sensations clawed at her feet, screaming to be remembered, before looking at his eyes as she finished slipping her left foot into its respective croc. “I really, really hate it, but sure. So long as it’s you, it’s fine. I might even little it a little.”
The reunited couple shared a kiss as she stumbled out of the chair, and the two returned to Paul’s car. A few nights later they engaged in the first of many tickling sessions, which lasted until the pre-marital pregnancy, when Paul fled the state.
Hair Wizard (or) Hair’s Betrayal by the Hands of the Hair Wizard – (Hair/F Feet)
As Linda kicked her feet, wrapped entirely by the rubber of her sickly blue crocs, she examined the waiting room of this strange barbershop that she had never heard of before today. The room was small, containing only a coat rack to her right – with no coats on the hooks as it was the middle of summer – three chairs, one of which she occupied, and a tiny receptionist’s desk that sat unmanned and littered with assorted papers, which formed a sickly plethora of colors not unlike the clear rows of plastic within a candy store. There was a window – a dusty thing painted with fingerprints in the lower regions and lined with cobwebs at its top corners – but the view of a brick wall that it offered was harrowing, though it did give her the impression, by its hues and drained colors, that the sun had finally begun to set. It was an excessively boring waiting room, she thought as she sighed heavily, hoping her boyfriend Paul’s haircut would soon be over.
For long minutes she contemplated why a barbershop needed a waiting room; when she realized the building was old, she assumed that it had not always been a barbershop. Considering its flow of business - or rather a lack thereof - and how she had never heard of it, it seemed highly likely that the place had just opened, but she could not be sure of that. Before she could begin to hungrily eye the lollipops, those delicious dum-dums flavored every artificial fruit that the mind could imagine – or even be imagined by those imaginations - the door to her right, to the actual barbershop, opened a crack, revealing a thin arm that signaled for her to enter.
With little effort she rose, brushing her curly blond locks from her face as she did so. The distinct clean smell of shampoo grew stronger as she came closer, while with each step the cloth of her skirt danced around and between her legs as if it attempted to forewarn her of impending doom, or else to pull her back to the safety of the waiting room. That man never moved from the other side of the door, nor did he stop smiling that uncomfortable smile that seemed plastered to his face as he held the door open for her. For this, she was glad, as she could feel its weight simply by setting a hand upon it as she passed, solely in the case that the barber decided to remove his grip and allow the door free reign to slam into her. At first, when she realized this balding ghoul of a man worked here, too, she was surprised, but it made sense after some thought. He had, when Paul and herself had dared venture to their local mall, handed to Paul a coupon for a free haircut at this location; Shaggy and economic – he said economic, she said cheap – as he was, he could not refuse the journey, and now she was here, several hours later. But she had not initially expected that same man, who had such a creepy look to him, to be the only one here. Strangely, when she entered the Barber’s room, there was not a soul in sight; unfortunately it had not occurred fast enough for her to defend herself.
From behind she felt a push as firm bony hands grasped her shoulders. She fell forward a little and before she could recover, that man was on top of her again. In a mix of a turn and an attack, she swung her left arm at him, but he easily evaded and invaded her defensive bubble, pushing her into one of the barber’s chairs behind her as he did. A strange thing then occurred; she suddenly, as soon as her arms hit the rests, could feel that her arms were bound tightly against them by a thin but strong substance that seemed to multiply so much and so fast that her entirety of her forearm was enwrapped within that very brief moment. Quickly, she looked down to see hair – her own hair – tightly wound about both her wrists, and, as she noticed the wrists, she felt and then saw her ankles become bound both together to the kick stand so that her feet dangled just beneath that metal bar, bound what by couldn’t be but had to be her own hair, which had seemingly been grasped some form of life, and doing so, decided to rebel against her.
That twig of a man stood before her now, and spoke before she could scream at him. “Yeah, you’d think being a Hair Wizard was entirely useless.”
What he said threw her off so much that she could not respond with more than a solid, “What?” confused as she was by the strange statement.
“I’m a wizard, but I only have control over hair. Drew one of the short straws at Wizarding School. Well, it’s not as bad as the Tooth Wizard.”
For a moment she sat perplexed, then, despite the situation, asked, “Do you mean the Tooth Fairy?”
“Is that what he calls himself, now? That pretentious snob! And do you know what he does with those teeth he steals from children and adults alike? He turns them into golems! Planning world domination, hah! Only he would be so foolishly self-confident to attempt such a thing. I can’t believe he became famous while someone of my caliber was left to… well, no matter. I kind of enjoy doing this evil mastermind monologue, so I want to get back to that. You know, I always thought it was corny in movies and such, but it’s really quite fun when you do it yourself. Anyway, I could use any hair, but I always found it so ironic to use my victim’s hair against them. Oh, and he left, by the way. I told him you left. Called you a *****. I only wanted you anyway. I’m so glad you came with him.”
“What?”
“The mall? It was a setup. I targeted you.”
“Alright… for what?”
“You don’t want to know why I chose you and not someone else?”
“Oh. Uh, sure?”
“Well, you’re pretty. Not that pretty, but still pretty good. But mostly, it was the hair. Hippies are the best for this, you know?”
“Best for what?” She asked, then, realizing how stupid yet dangerous the situation was, took it more seriously. “Let me go!” she shouted at him as he cackled madly.
“Thanks for asking. Best for this.”
She felt something then, on the bottom of her right foot: an irresistible itch that seemed to scratch at her foot, bare as it was within that rubber which restricted its movements, and she could not help but giggle as the spot on her arch just below her ball continued to itch. She laughed at the curious peculiar feeling like a sputtering child grasps for air when drowning in the shallow end of a pool, unaware that he can stand if he only allowed himself.
“See?” that man-twig spoke with glee, “Isn’t it ironic?”
“What? Nohoho! Not rehealy!” she attempted to say, though two single stroke like sensations that felt as if a paint brush ran down the center of her right foot interrupted her.
“Oh. That’s a little disappointing. Oh well. Anyway, let’s get started. Well, let’s you get you started, that is.” He said with an insane laugh as he knelt down by the base of the chair, which caused her to notice for the first time that her hair had extended from her head and penetrated her shoe, writhing about from the looks at it, causing the tickling feeling that she felt. “Let’s just remove these, shall we?”
“Hey man! What the hell!? Don’t touch my shoes!”
“Hah,” he laughed in a mocking way, his nose hairs trembling at the jest, “It’s not like I need to, really, but you’re hardly in a position to order me around, you know?”
“Seriously! Stay away from my fucking feet, you creep!”
“Oops,” he said; just like the simple word he uttered, her shoes were slipped off without even the modest thought of resistance, simultaneously placed on the floor beneath her. “Didn’t quite hear you in time. Darn, huh? Guess you’ll just have to sit here, barefoot. I’m actually amazed at how clean and pretty they are, too.” With those words a look came to his face, reminding her of a hungry wolf; he even went as far as licking his lips while gazing at her jade toenails.
“Thanks,” she replied sourly, entirely creeped out by the barber.
“Oh, you’re quite welcome. And now!” Like a geyser, he shot up, raising his arms above his head as he fell back into the barber’s chair next to hers with finesse. “The show begins.” At those words, her ever sensitive toes became tightly restricted and pulled upwards, so that her soles were stretched and fully exposed. For some reason, the reality of the situation had only then set in; escape was the only word on her mind then as she struggled at the bondage created from herself while that man watched, an eerie light in his eye the entire time that seemed to dance and reflect about merrily in the otherwise fixated gaze that seemed to attempt to devour her.
Though struggling didn’t hurt, her hair might as well have been steel despite how soft it felt, for it held her so tightly that she found herself unable to budge even the slightest of centimeters. A few more seconds of struggle ensued, during which she attempted to at least free her feet, as they seemed to be the dastardly fiend’s targets, but could not manage to so much as even wiggle any of her toes at all. Because of her love for bondage and being made helpless, and therefore forced to endure whatever was fantasized by her current playmate, she had begun to feel that overwhelming half-burning half-tingling sensation well up within her tummy, but fought against it, knowing full well the direness that the situation held for her. It suddenly began, first around her enwrapped toes as each hair that held them came alive, pulsating and rolling about in such a way that tickled far beyond what she had ever though herself capable of feeling, her laughter reflecting this with a mix of surprise and hysterics; that lustful burning sensation raged inside of her stomach as she cried out with raucous laughter. “Ok! Ok!” she shouted between laughs, feeling her endurance for the tickling he must intend for her drain immediately so that she could no longer bear any more, “You can stop now! You can stop! Please!”
“Oh?” Was all the response he had for her, “That much of a reaction from just your toes, hm? Oh, my, you are in quite some trouble.” A flick of strands ran down her left arch, starting at her heel straight to and around her ball several times before returning down the same path; had her foot been free, it would have spasmed out of control, lurking away to hide within the dual protection of thick socks and secure boots, but her hair restricted her attempts to pull away with all of the strength she could ever hope for to that of mere shudders at the passing touch the paint brush like hair, rocking the chair violently against the bolts in the linoleum as a result; for some obscure reason, she recalled all of the paintings she had ever seen then, so that her mind was filled with images of Rembrant and Van Gogh. She decided then that this was what a canvas must feel like; that painters were demonic people who sought some sort of perverse glee by slowly and methodically tracing their hellish, absurdly ticklish brushes across both canvases and the feet of helpless damsels, so that both cried out with such a surge of emotion that would elicit the most response from the intended audience, who would then go home and fantasize about their own canvases and damsels to harass.
“So here’s what I love about this,” he spoke hotly, drawing her back to reality as he leaned over his army rest, intently watching her and clearly enjoying each thrust she made with her upper body in an attempt to free herself, though she was only barely aware of him, her entire focus falling upon her feet and attempting to avoid each new attack that began against them despite the impression she was given that her hair knew exactly how she would dodge or evade, so that her attempts were fruitless. “I’m only suggesting what your hair does, really; just sort of pushing it in the right direction. It’s your hairs’ decision to tickle you, not mine. Isn’t it ironic? You’re tickling yourself and at the same time trying to escape from it, from yourself. From what you’re doing to yourself. Isn’t it fascinating?”
Desperately, she wanted to scream no, not at all, but found herself unable to as unrelenting waves of laughter broke through the docks that were her clenched teeth while the unrelenting storm that created her laughter increased in velocity as more and more tufts of her hair appeared in various spots, torturing her further and further still. All of her focus fell to that of laughing as hard as she could as various parts of her feet were brushed at, causing her at times to turn her head into her armpit and giggle away secretly in an attempt to keep her beautiful laughter to herself. At one point, each of her toes felt her hairs’ treachery, her little toes enveloped fully in the ridiculously maddening touches; at this point she held her eyes shut, attempting to close herself away from the world, but in doing so only enhanced her reception of the touches, forcing herself to laugh still harder than she had been.
After some time, the small tufts of hair multiplied so much that not an inch of her soles or toes remained free of that terrible reign of tickling which besieged her feet, un-harassed until today, when they were forced to endure such a plethora of sensation. At the point which she was unsure if she could possibly endure another second of this pure and absolute torture, she found herself unable to laugh, empty air replacing what should have been giggles as the blazing flames of desire within threatened to engulf her. For a few seconds longer, she endured, managing to stave off insanity, though the seconds might as well have been hours, and then it ended, though she continued to pant for air, devouring what little she could manage to grasp at while she continued to giggle lightly.
Curious as to what had brought on this strange fit of mercy, she managed to raise her hanging head just enough to catch a glimpse of that foul man as he scoured the contents of barbers tools, at last shouting “Aha!” while withdrawing a rather large hairbrush and seemingly misplaced bottle of lotion. “This one is probably my favorite combination,” he explained happily, kneeling by her still bound feet that had completely lost the will to combat against the bondage any longer as he continued to speak, “Just wait! You’ll love this one!”
A schlorp sound met her exhausted ears just before she felt her right foot have that greasy slime rubbed all over its bottom; though she recognized the feeling, it was an unfamiliar one where it now was. Something loud came from behind her, which she normally would have found startling, calling her attention to it, but as she sat there panting, she hardly recognized that there had been any sound at all until she heard a familiar voice shout “Not so fast, villain!” returning her consciousness to reality.
“He’s really not moving that fast.. just so you know...” she muttered somewhat audibly in response to her boyfriends stupid shout.
“Quiet wench!” the all too familiar voice retorted from behind her.
“Clever,” she uttered beneath her breath, finding herself unable to raise her voice any louder than that.
That mobile twig, taken aback with surprise, leapt up, hairbrush in hand as if he were ready to strike. “But how! How did you see through my clever rouse!?”
“Simple, dear barber! I forgot to leave a tip, and returned to do so, when I suddenly heard my poor princess’s cries for help!”
“Twenty minutes later?!” The barber retorted.
“Well. I watched for a while. It was fun and she wasn’t in any real danger.”
“Oh, you’re a real prince, you know that?! A true knight in shining armor!” She shouted at him, realizing that he had sat and watched her be tortured.
“Hush! You were fine!”
“I was not!”
“Oh come on! He was only tickling you a little.”
“It tickled a lot you jerk!”
“Well… I enjoyed watching.”
“Jerk!”
“Words can hurt you know…”
“Silence! Enough of this squabbling! You may have discovered my dark secret, but I still have the upper hand!” Shouted that devil’s barber, rising fully so that he stood tall and straight, menacing her with his mere presence as the light of death seemed to reflect from his eyes. It was true, though; she was still captive, and Paul had no way to combat this man’s witchcraft.
“Except that I have this!” He shouted, proudly brandishing a bottle of hairspray far above his head.
“Hairspray? That’s it? Hairspray? That’s your secret weapon? Your ace in the hole? What the fuck, Paul!? She shouted out at him, but was eventually drowned out by a horrific and chaotic howl that came from the barber.
“No! My one weakness! How did you know?!”
“I found it on the desk in the other room, in a box labeled ‘My only weakness’ alongside a paper with detailed instructions as to how it cripples your sway over hair.”
“Nooooo!” The barber screamed, falling to his knees.
“Really?! I mean, really?” Linda shouted at the barber, unable to voice the thoughts that sprang to her mind.
“And you’ll never discover why, nor will you ever catch me! Away!” With that final word, the mad barber ran out the backdoor and down what probably was a dark, empty street; as Linda could not see much from her chair, she was left to assume these things. Slowly, her hair gave way, releasing her and retracting to its normal length.
“Hey,” Paul spoke simply as he stood by the entrance. Though her eyes smoldered at the stupidity of the situation that had managed to somehow trap her, she returned the pleasantry. “So, uh…” Paul began, but found himself unable to finish, as if he could not discover the words he sought.
“Yeah,” she said in that sarcastic tone that she hoped conveyed she was not interested in dealing with this right now; truthfully, she just wanted to get the hell out of there, but was so drained of energy she found herself unable to rise.
“Can I try doing that to you next time?” The words came to her as she bent down and re-equiped her footwear, her right foot sliding about within the croc as a result of the lotion.
For a few moments, she sat frozen in the process as the memories of those sensations clawed at her feet, screaming to be remembered, before looking at his eyes as she finished slipping her left foot into its respective croc. “I really, really hate it, but sure. So long as it’s you, it’s fine. I might even little it a little.”
The reunited couple shared a kiss as she stumbled out of the chair, and the two returned to Paul’s car. A few nights later they engaged in the first of many tickling sessions, which lasted until the pre-marital pregnancy, when Paul fled the state.
