Dr. Bill Kobb
Level of Cherry Feather
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2003
- Messages
- 10,264
- Points
- 48
Pteronophobia
“I don’t know, Dr.!” Margaret was attempting to cooperate, but already she could feel her anxiety rising, fearful that if she answered Dr. Goulding’s questions wrong, she might never be allowed to leave the Behavioral Center.
“Now, there there, Margaret”, the Dr. murmured soothingly, “How can I begin to help you with these irrational fears of yours if you can’t even tell me when they started, eh?”.
Feeling the Dr.’s intense gaze on her, Margaret closed her eyes and attempted as best she could to remain composed, as she leaned back on the low couch in the center of the therapist’s ‘Session Room’. “I…I can’t explain it, Dr.! I don’t recall being afraid of tickling in my entire life. Now, all of a sudden, if I so much as see a feather, I get these terrible panic attacks, and if anyone touches me, it makes me want to jump out of my skin! Oh, can’t you help me, Dr.?”.
Opening her eyes, Margaret is alarmed to find Dr. Goulding hovering directly over her, an almost leering grin spread across his thin lips as he appeared to be gazing down her blouse. “Doctor!” she yelped, a look of terror suddenly returning.
Easing back in his rolling chair, Dr. Goulding frowned, saying, “Now Margaret, I’m afraid we can’t achieve the level of trust that’s so necessary to a patient/doctor relationship if you’re going to keep holding back from me. Did you receive your shot of sodium pentomorphinol from Nurse Meyers prior to coming to my office, as I’d prescribed?”.
“Oh, yes, Doctor!”, Margaret almost cried, “Please! I really do want to be better, so I can go home!”. Looking up at the doctor, it seemed as though the back of the office was becoming out-of-focus, as a familiar warmth gently spread around the base of Margaret’s neck.
“So, you’re telling me that you don’t want to stay here and solve your problems like an adult, but would rather go back outside, where there might be any number of THESE waiting for you?!?” inquired Dr. Goulding, producing a single slender white feather that he holds in front of his face, his eyes alight with a seemingly mad delight as he rings a tiny brass bell in his other hand.
-Ding-a-ling-a-ling!-
As the warmth spreads from the back of her neck to her forehead, Margaret manages only a pitiful “Nooooooo…” as she loses consciousness, swimming off into the warm, enveloping darkness.
Minutes Later…
Whatever it was, it was flitting around her face and neck, and down to her collar, like some pesky gnat that wouldn’t stop bothering her. As she resurfaced from her quiet, peaceful stupor, Margaret was throwing her head back and forth, attempting to evade the pestering nuisance. Eyes opening, she discovers she is still in Dr. Goulding’s ‘Session Room’, his reclining couch now flat, her wrists and ankles bound tightly to the stout legs, and her skirt and blouse in a heap on the floor beside her.
It is only then that she further realizes that she can only breathe through her nose, a thick wad of some fabric filling her mouth, duct-tape holding it firmly in place. And then the panic attack begins, her breathing coming in quick, shallow gasps, her heart now pounding frantically in her chest, as she begins to fight the straps holding her spread taut across the long leather sofa!
A tiny whisper just above her head almost singing her name, “Margaret…”. Looking up above-head as much as her compromised position will allow, she sees Dr. Gould’s face leering upside-down at her, apparently seated at the head of the recliner. It is then that she notices the two white feathers he holds, one in each hand, to either side of her face, as she begins to sob behind the gag.
Then, just as in her nightmares, she feels it! The ever-so-slight, maddening sensation, as the tips of the feathers glide ever so softly across her naked skin, leaving goosebumps and shiverings in their wake.
For what feels like hours of torment, Margaret screams behind her gag, emitting only murmurs of protest as she squirms frantically in her bonds, a sheen of perspiration drenching her body, while her “therapy” continues. “You see, Margaret”, intones Dr. Goulding in his smug, monotone delivery, “in cases as difficult as yours, extreme measures are sometimes unavoidable, and it’s my concerted opinion that the only way we’ll achieve a positive response to therapy is if we can jar you from these ludicrous notions of tickling as anything but an enjoyable, pleasurable event, rather than something to be feared or dreaded. Don’t you agree, dear?” ; “Mmmmnnnhhp!”, Margaret argued vociferously.
Working his way down her helpless, exposed body, the therapist eventually foregoes the feathers, at times literally crouching on top of her on the couch, his fingers playing up and down her ribs, sides, hips and belly, causing Margaret to jostle madly against the straps, now dripping head-to-toe in perspiration, as he ever-so-gradually tickles his way down to the foot of the couch.
“Now Margaret, if you are indeed so against being tickled, why must you laugh so madly that I find it necessary to gag you, so that the other patients won’t be alarmed at your outbursts?”, chuckles the doctor, even now tracing fingertip strokings down Margaret’s heels, sending her into renewed struggles and shriekings behind her thick gag.
Kicking reflexively proves useless, her legs are held so tightly to the lower legs of the couch, Dr. Goulding’s fingers dancing maddeningly across her soles, between her toes, and around the tops and heels of her tiny, ever-so-sensitive feet.
“There there, Margaret”, purrs the doctor, sliding his swivel chair to midway along her gasping, heaving body. “Now, before we go any further with your session, I think it’s important that we catalog each of these areas you say cause you such ticklish agony”. And with that, the cruel therapist commences his torturous finale, his nimble left hand darting around to spots all over her body above the waist, while his right hand tickles her feet, knees, and hips. “How about here?” ; “Here?”; “Perhaps here, too?”; “And here?”; “Yes, good.”; “And here?”, and so on, until the poor woman is very near to passing out from his evil routine.
And then, it stops! Not just for those jarring seconds when he’d give her a false break, only to attack another area, but truly ending, “Margaret, I feel that we’ve made some solid progress with your case today. Now, when I ring this bell, you will fall asleep, and forget everything that has happened today. And three, two… ”.
-Ding-a-ling-a-ling!-
- The End
Well, there you go, folks! My submission for the first ever Tickle Theater story contest. Hope you enjoy! - Rick Tibbler 😛aw:
