Dr. Bradley Brown entered the building and took the long elevator ride to the thirtieth floor to his office. He was one of the best-known and successful psychiatrists in town, thanks to his father, who had established the lucrative practice over twenty-five years earlier.
Brad was at least as skilled as his father was, probably more so. Called “a genius” for most of his life, he was able to finish medical school by the age of twenty-one, and took over his father’s psychiatry practice after finishing his residency training four years later. His father had died tragically in a car accident the following year, but most of his patients stayed with Brad. Now, at twenty-nine years old, his practice was often so busy that it might take a new patient three months to get in for an appointment, and he tended to treat the most elite of society.
His results were impressive. Frequently published in professional journals and a favorite speaker at medical conferences, he was respected by his peers as well as his patients. And he loved his work, finding great satisfaction in helping others make their lives happier. He saw both children and adults with all types of neuroses and psychoses, but his specialty was treatment of phobias and fetishes. Using an unusual combination of behavioral therapy, analysis, and hypnosis, he had an incredible ninety-percent success rate, far better than most in his field. Some, however, considered his techniques to be quite unorthodox, but his patients certainly never complained. After successful treatment many would go on to refer friends and family members.
Nancy’s smiling face greeted him when he entered the office. She had been with the practice since the beginning, and was remarkably efficient. They discussed the day’s schedule, especially the first patient of the day, who was new. Her name was Mary Greenman, twenty-three years old, married. The preliminary information didn’t say much, but he wondered if she might be the mayor’s daughter—the last name was the same.
He entered the spacious private office and sipped the steaming hot coffee Nancy had given him. A few moments later she used the intercom to let him know that Mrs. Greenman had arrived. She showed her in and then left, leaving Brad and his new patient alone.
“Nice to meet you,” Brad said, “I’m Dr. Brown.”
“Mary Greenman,” she replied, trying to smile.
It was obvious to Brad that she was quite nervous. She was an attractive woman, but apparently tried to do whatever she could to conceal it. Her beautiful auburn hair was pulled harshly into a small bun, and her trim figure was barely discernible through her bulky business suit. She wore little make-up, and spoke in a quiet, somewhat meek voice. Brad decided to try to put her at ease.
“Please, Mary,” then he stopped.
“Is it okay if I call you Mary?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“My treatments have been called unusual by some, but my ultimate goal is to help you with whatever problem you are having. That depends on us trusting each other. I want you to call me by my first name, Brad. We try to be as informal as possible here. Anything that happens, or is said within this office is one hundred percent completely confidential. Even a court of law can’t force a psychiatrist to discuss confidential patient information. You should feel completely free to tell me anything that you want, knowing that it will never, under any circumstances, leave this room.”
She spoke nervously for the rest of the hour session, and quite a bit about her recent marriage. She seemed happy and in love, and Brad knew that she hadn’t yet felt comfortable telling him what her true concern was. That wasn’t uncommon—it often took people until the second or third visit to get to the heart of their problem.
At Mary’s second visit she seemed even more nervous than the previous week. She started making small talk, and after a while Brad decided to try pushing her, just a little bit.
“Mary,” he began, “Do you feel ready to discuss the real reason you’re here?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, her cheeks reddened as she glanced down at the floor, “It’s so embarrassing. I feel like a fool.”
He smiled reassuringly.
You came here for my help,” he said, “Believe me, you couldn’t possibly tell me anything that I haven’t heard before. I really want to help you, and I’m sure that together we can work out any problem you might have. Please, trust me.”
It took her a minute to get up her courage.
“I love Donald so much,” she started, “But our sex life is terrible…and it’s all my fault!” She took a facial tissue from the box next to her chair and wiped the tears from her eyes, which were now flowing freely.
“Tell me what the problem is,” Brad persisted.
“When I was a little girl I grew up in a neighborhood where almost every family had children. In the summer, when school was out the street would be filled with children—there were always kids to play with, and I had a lot of friends.”
“Go on,” Brad said.
“There were these three sisters that lived across the street from us,” Mary continued, “They were mischievous—always in some sort of trouble. None of the kids liked them very much.”
She paused to blow her nose. “I feel ridiculous telling you this,” she said.
“Please go on. Often things that seem silly that happen to us in childhood can cause the deepest of psychological scars.”
“Well, some how these three sisters found out that I was ticklish. I don’t mean ticklish like all little kids are ticklish, I mean extremely ticklish, maybe more ticklish than anyone else on Earth—at least as far as I was concerned. There was no spot on my body that wasn’t incredibly ticklish, and I hated being tickled more than anything in the world. I still do.”
“What did they do to you?”
“They tortured me every chance they’d get,” she replied, starting to open up now, “taking turns pinning me down and tickling me. Before long they each knew my most ticklish spots—under my arms, my feet, my sides—and they would tickle me viciously, tormenting me. Sometimes I would pee in my pants. The more I begged for mercy, the more they tickled me. They said that if I told anyone what they were doing they would tickle me until I died—and I believed them.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Eventually,” she continued, “Around the time I started high school, my father got a new job and we moved to another city, but from that time forward I’ve been deathly afraid of being tickled. Any time anyone has ever tried to tickle me since then I absolutely go ballistic. I’ve actually injured two prior boyfriends when they were just being playful. I feel like some type of a freak.”
“How has this effected your relationship with your husband?” Brad asked.
“Donald is so wonderful. He’s the only person in the entire world, besides you now, who knows why I act the way I do. He’s been so supportive and understanding, but it’s just ridiculous how something like this can be ruining our marriage. It’s not just the fact that I think he enjoys tickling as foreplay, although he’s never actually told me that, and that we can never have that together, but it’s effecting our sex life as well. I’m so ticklish and so afraid of being tickled that I can’t enjoy sex. I try so hard, and I know in my head that he is being gentle and loving, but every time his hand brushes my leg, or touched my ribs, or almost any type of intimate touch, I gasp and jerk away—I just can’t help it. Everything tickles!”
Brad felt sorry for Mary, but was also quite pleased she had come along. Since he himself suffered from a severe tickling fetish, she would give him the opportunity to fulfill his secret fantasies while simultaneously helping her to overcome her fears.
“This is a solvable problem, Mary,” he said, “I know if we work together we can get you through this difficult time, but it won’t be easy, and it will require hard work and dedication on your part.”
“I’ll do anything I have to do.”
“We’ll start next week,” Brad replied.
• * * * * * * *
By the time Mary came to the fifth visit she was already noticing positive results from therapy. After meeting for an hour with Donald to discuss his point of view, Brad had started with intensive hypnotherapy, as he usually did in these types of cases. Under hypnosis he had brought her back to childhood and forced her to relive all the details of the unbearable torture at the hands of her evil childhood friends. Then, he conditioned her to truly believe that her husband was not trying to tickle her during sex—to trust him completely and know that he would never do anything to hurt her. Finally, he suggested, over and over again, that with time she would become less and less ticklish when her husband was touching her and more and more ticklish when Brad did—something that would become very useful in the next stage of her treatment. He would shift the entire focus of her phobia to himself, and then force her to face her worst fears, thus breaking the cycle. She would always be very ticklish—he couldn’t change that—but with therapy her feelings about being tickled could be slowly altered. Finally, he suggested that whenever she is tickled she would find herself sexually aroused afterward, in spite of any initial discomfort. He hoped that this would not only improve her sex life, but also make each consecutive tickling less feared than the one before, supplying a type of reward for the “punishment.” With each hypnotherapy session he reassured her that he could always be trusted, and that everything he did was only in her best interest.
After the day’s session, Brad was convinced that Mary was ready for the next step.
“You’ve really come a long way quite quickly,” he said, “I think you’re ready for the next phase of your therapy.”
“I’m much more relaxed in bed with Donald,” she said, her mouth dry from fear, “He thinks you’re a miracle worker, but I don’t know if I’m ready to move on yet.”
“We’ve gone as far as possible with hypnosis. The next step is to face your phobia head on. We will arrange for you to come to my laboratory where I have my phobia patients face their fears directly. We will carefully force you to submit to tickling, very gradually, allowing you to get used to the feeling after so many years of avoiding it, slowly increasing the tickling until you no longer fear the sensation.”
Mary was already starting to panic. “I don’t think I could take that,” she said.
“I know you can,” Brad said, “You must trust me.”
And of course she did.
• * * * * * * *
Brad had everything perfectly arranged. It had required the use of many of his special “connections,” and of course had been quite expensive (Mary would be paying most of the bill anyway), but was definitely worth it.
The lab had been completely redecorated as a medieval dungeon, complete with stocks, a rack, and iron chains. The set-up might have looked ancient, but much of the equipment was quite high-tech. Of course, he did plan to eventually cure Mary, but hidden video cameras and microphones were scattered across the room, so he could save a record of her treatments for “posterity.”
The doorbell rang and he exited the lab and answered the door. It was Mary, looking very nervous and apprehensive, as expected. He escorted her inside and took her coat.
“Don’t be nervous,” Brad said, “I promise everything will be okay.”
He brought her into the lab, and she gasped in surprise as soon as she walked through the door.
“What a horrible place!” she cried.
“It must look as little like the ‘real’ world and as much like a nightmare as possible,” Brad said, “It’s all part of the therapy.”
She was breathing rapidly and biting her lower lip.
“Promise me I’ll be okay,” she asked.
“I promise,” he said, meeting her eyes, “Did you dress as I instructed?”
“Yes,” she replied, color rising to her cheeks.
“Okay then, take off your clothes.”
Brad tried not to gawk as Mary slowly undressed. Under her clothes she was wearing nothing but a tiny string bikini, and he was surprised at how perfect her body was. She had a full, curvaceous, firm, sexy body with large breasts. In spite of the warmth of the room her nipples protruded gently against the fabric of her bathing suit. It was the first time he had ever seen her hair hanging loosely around her face. She was exceptionally beautiful.
Brad led her over to the far side of the room where standard wooden stocks were located. She sat on the bench and put her bare feet through the padded openings, and the stocks were closed, securing her ankles in place. Brad set up a chair right in front of Mary’s helpless feet.
“Now don’t be frightened,” he said, secretly becoming aroused before he had even begun, “we’re simply going to get you used to the sensation of being tickled a little at a time, gradually.”
He pulled out a very soft, fluffy feather and slowly began running it up and down Mary’s feet. At first he just barely grazed the skin, and actually purposely avoided the most ticklish spots, such as the arches and undersides of the toes. Up and down the feather went, ever so lightly.
Mary immediately went insane. First she tried violently jerking her feet free of the stocks, but they held fast. Then she started pleading with Brad, while giggling uncontrollably at the same time.
“No! Please stop-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-no more-he-hee-hee-he-hee-It’s horrible!”
“Just try and relax,” Brad said, “Nothing bad will happen to you. You need to learn that you can get used to the sensation, and learn to be able to take it.”
“But it tickles so much!”
Brad evoked an even more frantic response as he moved on to a firmer touch and included the more sensitive areas of her feet. He gave her frequent rest periods and constantly reassured her. When he finally stopped, Mary was actually pleased with how she had handled the situation.
“I did it!” she said, smiling, “No one has tickled me like that in years and I’m okay! I made it!”
“I knew you would,” Brad said, “and with continued therapy your fear of being tickled in normal, everyday situations will disappear.”
Brad opened the upper portion of the stocks and placed Mary’s hands and neck in the padded openings. Now she was seated comfortably on the bench, but her bound feet, hands, and neck made her extremely vulnerable.
Mary’s body jerked uncontrollably as Brad ran the fluffy feather up and down her back, trailing goose bumps with the delicate touch. Mary squirmed and giggled, but maintained her control until the feather moved to her ultra-sensitive sides and underarms.
“Hee-hee-hee-hee NO! Not there, please!” she squealed.
Brad kept up the torment for about fifteen minutes, then stopped and released her.
“That’s all for today,” he said, “You did very well.”
In spite of her ordeal, she seemed upbeat and pleased. They arranged for her to return Thursday. After she left, Brad reviewed the videotapes of the day’s session—several times.
When she returned to the lab on Thursday Mary seemed like a new person. Grinning uncontrollably, her cheeks flushed pink, she told Brad how she and Donald had made love after her prior session, and twice a day since, and that it had never been better. Her fear of tickling, though still present, had partially improved. When they entered the lab Mary quickly slipped out of her clothes without being asked.
“Today’s session will be a little bit more intense,” Brad said, trying desperately to maintain his professionalism and not leer at her gorgeous, bikini-clad body, “But if all goes well there may only have to be one more session after this. You’re making even better progress than I had hoped.
He led her over to iron manacles that were hanging from the ceiling. The manacles were heavily padded, and when he closed them around her wrists she could just barely stand flat-footed on the floor. He stepped back to look at her extremely ticklish body stretched taught and dangling from the ceiling.
He started again with a feather, this time a long stiff one, and quickly attacked various defenseless targets. As he moved from tummy to armpits to ribs and back again, each touch of the feather would elicit a squeal from Mary. Brad decided it was time to increase the intensity of the torture a notch or two.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” he said, wiggling his fingers just inches from her armpits.
“No, please!” she screamed, and then immediately broke into hysterical laughter as he attacked her armpits mercilessly.
He tickled her armpits, sides, and stomach with his wiggling fingers, each for about five minutes with ample rest in between, then repeated the cycle again, and then again. Soon Mary was hanging limply from her restraints. Brad let her down and gave her a moment to rest.
“That was torture!” she exclaimed, but Brad noticed a little smile that suggested maybe a small part of her had actually enjoyed it.
“But look how far you’ve come in conquering your fears,” he pointed out.
He brought her over to a strange looking padded bench. The bench was large and sturdy. It had four legs. At one end the legs extended straight up above the level of the bench for five feet, forming two tall posts about six feet high perpendicular to the surface of the bench.
“I don’t like the looks of that thing,” she said.
He laid her down on her back with her legs facing the end with the two posts. He centered her hips directly under the posts and strapped her in place with a padded belt that went around her hipbones snugly, but not too tight. Padded manacles were used to hold her wrists to the bench. He then lifted each leg straight up and secured each ankle to its corresponding post using padded ankle cuffs. Mary was now secured and completely helpless. With Brad standing at the end of the bench her feet were just below eye level and her legs spread apart, making the backs of the legs and inner thighs readily accessible.
Again he started with the stiff feather. As it ran up and down the backs of her legs, pausing at the inside of the knee joints, she made a valiant effort to hold in her laughter, but soon she was gasping and pleading for him to stop. For thirty minutes that feather slowly teased her legs and feet, moving in and out between her toes, teasing her inner thighs as her frantic laughter filled the room. After a short rest he switched to tickling her feet and the undersides of her toes with his fingernails.
“NOOOO! Please stop! I can’t take anymore!” she screamed as he gradually increased the intensity of the torture, “HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-NOOOOOOO-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-I CAN’T-HO-HO-HO-HO-HO-STAND IT! PLEASE!!!!”
Just when he thought she was going to go insane he switched tactics and tickled the backs of her legs. She was particularly ticklish when he squeezed her thighs just above the buttocks, and he concentrated on that area for quite some time, and then switched back to her feet, which seemed to never desensitize to his touch. Finally, when he thought she might faint, he stopped his torture and untied her.
Once she caught her breath, Mary was quite angry about the severe tickling to which Brad had subjected her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “But it was necessary if you want to make a full recovery. You’re upset and angry now, but when you return for your final treatment in five days you’ll feel differently.”
“I’m not so sure I’ll be back,” she said.
But he knew she would be.
Mary did come back for her final session, and even Brad was shocked to see how she had been transformed. Her hair was down, and her short skirt and halter-top was quite a contrast with the stark, unattractive business suit she had worn at their first meeting. She held her head high with confidence and he returned her smile.
“Let’s get to work!” she said and walked directly into the lab.
Brad followed, a bit startled by her attitude, and upon entering the lab found her already removing her clothes. He was shocked to see that she was wearing nothing underneath, and was soon naked.
“Uh, Mary,” Brad started.
“I thought if this was going to be my last session I wanted to go as far as possible,” she said, “I want to know that I can live through the worst torment you can dish out.”
He brought her over to the huge rack in the center of the room. It looked as if it had came straight out of a medieval castle, but was actually covered in luxurious soft fur, and the manacles were heavily padded. He strapped her ankles and wrists into the restraints, and turned the giant locking wheel at the top of the rack until her naked, sexy body was stretched taught on the table. Her arms were high over her head and her legs were spread far apart. The table slanted ever so slightly, so her feet were slightly lower than her head.
“Is that too tight?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
Brad picked up one huge fluffy peacock feather in each hand. He didn’t plan to waste much time with the feathers today, but wanted to get Mary into the appropriate mood. He began lightly running the feathers all over her body, from her armpits to her feet, as she squirmed and giggled. She could barely move on the soft table.
“Today’s your final session,” Brad said, continuing the teasing with the feathers, “and when you leave here I believe you will be permanently cured. I will be merciless—no matter how much you beg and plead the tickling will only stop when I say so. You will be my tickle slave, and I will find the most ticklish spots on your body and torture you.”
Mary’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything.
Brad put the feathers aside and moved to the “foot” of the rack, where Mary’s bound feet just barely hung over the edge.
“Your feet are quite ticklish aren’t they?” he taunted, “Itchy-kitchy-coo, Mary.”
He attacked the left foot with his fingers, starting gently at first, then eventually vigorously scratching the soul while she howled with laughter. Even with no chance of escape she frantically and involuntarily tried to break free of her bonds. While continuing to tickle her left sole he leaned forward and began darting his tongue in and out between her toes. Mary simply couldn’t stand such devious torture.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!-HA-HA-HAHO-HO-HO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” her screams eventually becoming convulsive silent laughter with an occasional futile gasp for breath.
Brad calmly applied the exact same torture to the other foot, taking his time on each one, and then finished by using his fingers on both feet at the same time. Mary had stopped struggling, her entire being focused on her feet and her body consumed with laughter. Brad stopped and gave Mary a break.
“OH MY GOD!!!” she said after catching her breath, “That was unbearable!”
“You aren’t trying to give up already are you?”
“No,” she said, blushing slightly.
Brad picked up two small stiff feathers and straddled her chest. He waved the fathers menacingly over her armpits.
“Think you can handle my next torture?” he asked, “I seem to remember your armpits being quite sensitive. Tickle, tickle…the feathers are getting closer…tickle, tickle, tickle!”
As he slowly lowered the feathers she started giggling and struggling before they even touched her skin. She squealed hysterically, laughing and begging and pleading as the feathers began teasing her sensitive armpits. After ten minutes Brad dropped the feathers, prodding and stroking the soft skin with his fingers. Again Mary progressed to hysterical laughter, and eventually threw her head back, her mouth open in a huge grin, her body silently convulsing while she occasionally gasped a huge gulp of air. He forced her to endure this for fifteen minutes before stopping and allowing her to catch her breath again.
“No more, please!” she cried, “That’s all I can take! That’s it! I can’t stand another minute! Please, I’m begging you!”
Brad ignored her pleas.
“We’re almost through,” he said soothingly, “Just hang in there and you’ll be free of this problem forever.”
As she continued begging for mercy Brad set up the final, and most devastating, phase of her treatment. He rolled out the four pieces of equipment that he had had specially designed by a close personal friend—and they certainly were not inexpensive. These devices were tickling machines, but nothing so crude as the wiggling feathers or feathered wheels found in cartoons and fiction. These were very sophisticated robotic devices, which used laser guidance, and electronic sensors to determine target location and apply appropriate pressure. He hoped they would work as planned.
Ignoring Mary’s frantic begging, he wheeled the two devices designed for the feet into place. They each locked into position in special brackets at the end of the table, just inches from Mary’s immobile feet. He firmly tied each big toe to an eyelet on each ankle brace. He then placed each machine’s four fluffy feathers between each of Mary’s toes. A small device that looked like a cross between a fork and a miniature back-scratcher rested on each sole.
He moved the other two devices to either side of the table and attached them to the brackets near Mary’s armpits. They locked in place less than an inch from each immobile pit, and each machine had four “utensils” protruding from them that rested on the skin—two that were stiff feathers, and two that were rubber probes covered with soft fur.
“What are you doing?” Mary demanded as Brad placed a soft black blindfold over her eyes.
“You must be as helpless as possible in order to maximize the torture,” Brad replied deviously, “If you’re blindfolded you can’t see where the next attack will be. And, let the games begin.”
With that Brad flicked the switch on the machine at Mary’s left foot. The four feathers started moving in and out between her toes, randomly adjusting their frequency from slow to vigorously fast and back again. The small fork-like device moved quickly over the entire sole, adjusting itself to apply the maximum force without causing pain, and the electric eyes made sure that the device covered the entire foot.
The result was even more devastating than Brad had hoped, and soon she was laughing at least as hard as she had been when he was tickling her feet himself. He turned on the machine at her other foot so it would receive the same treatment.
“GOD! NOOOO!” she screamed between gales of hysterical laughter, “NO MORE! I’LL DIE! PLEASE STOP!!!!!!!!!!”
But Brad was just getting started. He turned on the machine at her left armpit and watched as it whirred into motion. The feathers rotated like dervishes against the soft skin, and the fur covered probes poked, rubbed, and prodded the skin with just the right amount of force. He turned on the final machine and stepped back to watch.
Poor Mary was beside herself. Laughing, gasping, snorting, struggling, screaming…but in no way avoiding any of the horrible tickling. For the third time that day Mary’s body convulsed in silent laughter. She was unable to struggle. She had completely lost all control.
Brad was determined to push her beyond all human endurance. He climbed up next to her on the table and started to maniacally tickle her ribs. He poked, prodded, and tweaked her ribs again and again. He knew he was adding to her torment as he saw her begin to struggle again and laugh even harder, something that he didn’t think possible. Then, so she wouldn’t get too used to any one sensation, he switched to her ultra-ticklish sides, and then after five minutes of this he moved to her knees, alternately squeezing the kneecaps and tickling the undersides. He then went back to the ribs, the stomach and sides, the legs, the knees, and back again…over and over, while the four tickling machines continued their torment. After thirty minutes of torture Mary lost control of her bladder and he was sure that she would faint, but she never did. He even tickled her breasts, messaging their sides and tweaking the nipples gently. After forty-five minutes of nonstop silent laughter Brad decided that she had had enough—it wouldn’t be fair to continue. If he didn’t know it was for her own good he would almost have felt guilty pushing someone who was so incredibly ticklish to such extremes—almost.
He stopped the tickling, removed the four machines, and untied Mary. She had lost control to such an extent that it took quite a while for her to realize that the tickling had stopped. After untying her he put on a pair of super soft, luxurious fur gloves and caressed her body from head to toe, calming her down. She couldn’t speak for quite some time.
“I can’t imagine any worse torture in the world,” she finally said.
“I’m sorry,” Brad replied, “But it had to be done. You’re finally cured.”
“I know,” she said, “Thank you.”
• * * * * * * *
About two months later Brad was going through the mail at his office, when he came upon a letter from Mary. He opened it and saw that it was handwritten on heavy white stationary.
Dear Brad,
I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. I never realized until after we finished my treatment how much my phobia had been affecting my life. I’ve never been happier. My marriage is stronger than ever, and my problems with intimacy seem to have disappeared permanently. Donald and I simply can’t thank you enough. One of my closest friends has seen my miraculous transformation and, if it is acceptable to you, I will be referring her to you for treatment of a similar problem.
I did have two questions however. First of all, is any of your “laboratory equipment” available for home use? And, secondly, do you need a laboratory assistant?
Thank you again.
Sincerely,
Mary Greenman
Brad was at least as skilled as his father was, probably more so. Called “a genius” for most of his life, he was able to finish medical school by the age of twenty-one, and took over his father’s psychiatry practice after finishing his residency training four years later. His father had died tragically in a car accident the following year, but most of his patients stayed with Brad. Now, at twenty-nine years old, his practice was often so busy that it might take a new patient three months to get in for an appointment, and he tended to treat the most elite of society.
His results were impressive. Frequently published in professional journals and a favorite speaker at medical conferences, he was respected by his peers as well as his patients. And he loved his work, finding great satisfaction in helping others make their lives happier. He saw both children and adults with all types of neuroses and psychoses, but his specialty was treatment of phobias and fetishes. Using an unusual combination of behavioral therapy, analysis, and hypnosis, he had an incredible ninety-percent success rate, far better than most in his field. Some, however, considered his techniques to be quite unorthodox, but his patients certainly never complained. After successful treatment many would go on to refer friends and family members.
Nancy’s smiling face greeted him when he entered the office. She had been with the practice since the beginning, and was remarkably efficient. They discussed the day’s schedule, especially the first patient of the day, who was new. Her name was Mary Greenman, twenty-three years old, married. The preliminary information didn’t say much, but he wondered if she might be the mayor’s daughter—the last name was the same.
He entered the spacious private office and sipped the steaming hot coffee Nancy had given him. A few moments later she used the intercom to let him know that Mrs. Greenman had arrived. She showed her in and then left, leaving Brad and his new patient alone.
“Nice to meet you,” Brad said, “I’m Dr. Brown.”
“Mary Greenman,” she replied, trying to smile.
It was obvious to Brad that she was quite nervous. She was an attractive woman, but apparently tried to do whatever she could to conceal it. Her beautiful auburn hair was pulled harshly into a small bun, and her trim figure was barely discernible through her bulky business suit. She wore little make-up, and spoke in a quiet, somewhat meek voice. Brad decided to try to put her at ease.
“Please, Mary,” then he stopped.
“Is it okay if I call you Mary?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“My treatments have been called unusual by some, but my ultimate goal is to help you with whatever problem you are having. That depends on us trusting each other. I want you to call me by my first name, Brad. We try to be as informal as possible here. Anything that happens, or is said within this office is one hundred percent completely confidential. Even a court of law can’t force a psychiatrist to discuss confidential patient information. You should feel completely free to tell me anything that you want, knowing that it will never, under any circumstances, leave this room.”
She spoke nervously for the rest of the hour session, and quite a bit about her recent marriage. She seemed happy and in love, and Brad knew that she hadn’t yet felt comfortable telling him what her true concern was. That wasn’t uncommon—it often took people until the second or third visit to get to the heart of their problem.
At Mary’s second visit she seemed even more nervous than the previous week. She started making small talk, and after a while Brad decided to try pushing her, just a little bit.
“Mary,” he began, “Do you feel ready to discuss the real reason you’re here?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, her cheeks reddened as she glanced down at the floor, “It’s so embarrassing. I feel like a fool.”
He smiled reassuringly.
You came here for my help,” he said, “Believe me, you couldn’t possibly tell me anything that I haven’t heard before. I really want to help you, and I’m sure that together we can work out any problem you might have. Please, trust me.”
It took her a minute to get up her courage.
“I love Donald so much,” she started, “But our sex life is terrible…and it’s all my fault!” She took a facial tissue from the box next to her chair and wiped the tears from her eyes, which were now flowing freely.
“Tell me what the problem is,” Brad persisted.
“When I was a little girl I grew up in a neighborhood where almost every family had children. In the summer, when school was out the street would be filled with children—there were always kids to play with, and I had a lot of friends.”
“Go on,” Brad said.
“There were these three sisters that lived across the street from us,” Mary continued, “They were mischievous—always in some sort of trouble. None of the kids liked them very much.”
She paused to blow her nose. “I feel ridiculous telling you this,” she said.
“Please go on. Often things that seem silly that happen to us in childhood can cause the deepest of psychological scars.”
“Well, some how these three sisters found out that I was ticklish. I don’t mean ticklish like all little kids are ticklish, I mean extremely ticklish, maybe more ticklish than anyone else on Earth—at least as far as I was concerned. There was no spot on my body that wasn’t incredibly ticklish, and I hated being tickled more than anything in the world. I still do.”
“What did they do to you?”
“They tortured me every chance they’d get,” she replied, starting to open up now, “taking turns pinning me down and tickling me. Before long they each knew my most ticklish spots—under my arms, my feet, my sides—and they would tickle me viciously, tormenting me. Sometimes I would pee in my pants. The more I begged for mercy, the more they tickled me. They said that if I told anyone what they were doing they would tickle me until I died—and I believed them.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Eventually,” she continued, “Around the time I started high school, my father got a new job and we moved to another city, but from that time forward I’ve been deathly afraid of being tickled. Any time anyone has ever tried to tickle me since then I absolutely go ballistic. I’ve actually injured two prior boyfriends when they were just being playful. I feel like some type of a freak.”
“How has this effected your relationship with your husband?” Brad asked.
“Donald is so wonderful. He’s the only person in the entire world, besides you now, who knows why I act the way I do. He’s been so supportive and understanding, but it’s just ridiculous how something like this can be ruining our marriage. It’s not just the fact that I think he enjoys tickling as foreplay, although he’s never actually told me that, and that we can never have that together, but it’s effecting our sex life as well. I’m so ticklish and so afraid of being tickled that I can’t enjoy sex. I try so hard, and I know in my head that he is being gentle and loving, but every time his hand brushes my leg, or touched my ribs, or almost any type of intimate touch, I gasp and jerk away—I just can’t help it. Everything tickles!”
Brad felt sorry for Mary, but was also quite pleased she had come along. Since he himself suffered from a severe tickling fetish, she would give him the opportunity to fulfill his secret fantasies while simultaneously helping her to overcome her fears.
“This is a solvable problem, Mary,” he said, “I know if we work together we can get you through this difficult time, but it won’t be easy, and it will require hard work and dedication on your part.”
“I’ll do anything I have to do.”
“We’ll start next week,” Brad replied.
• * * * * * * *
By the time Mary came to the fifth visit she was already noticing positive results from therapy. After meeting for an hour with Donald to discuss his point of view, Brad had started with intensive hypnotherapy, as he usually did in these types of cases. Under hypnosis he had brought her back to childhood and forced her to relive all the details of the unbearable torture at the hands of her evil childhood friends. Then, he conditioned her to truly believe that her husband was not trying to tickle her during sex—to trust him completely and know that he would never do anything to hurt her. Finally, he suggested, over and over again, that with time she would become less and less ticklish when her husband was touching her and more and more ticklish when Brad did—something that would become very useful in the next stage of her treatment. He would shift the entire focus of her phobia to himself, and then force her to face her worst fears, thus breaking the cycle. She would always be very ticklish—he couldn’t change that—but with therapy her feelings about being tickled could be slowly altered. Finally, he suggested that whenever she is tickled she would find herself sexually aroused afterward, in spite of any initial discomfort. He hoped that this would not only improve her sex life, but also make each consecutive tickling less feared than the one before, supplying a type of reward for the “punishment.” With each hypnotherapy session he reassured her that he could always be trusted, and that everything he did was only in her best interest.
After the day’s session, Brad was convinced that Mary was ready for the next step.
“You’ve really come a long way quite quickly,” he said, “I think you’re ready for the next phase of your therapy.”
“I’m much more relaxed in bed with Donald,” she said, her mouth dry from fear, “He thinks you’re a miracle worker, but I don’t know if I’m ready to move on yet.”
“We’ve gone as far as possible with hypnosis. The next step is to face your phobia head on. We will arrange for you to come to my laboratory where I have my phobia patients face their fears directly. We will carefully force you to submit to tickling, very gradually, allowing you to get used to the feeling after so many years of avoiding it, slowly increasing the tickling until you no longer fear the sensation.”
Mary was already starting to panic. “I don’t think I could take that,” she said.
“I know you can,” Brad said, “You must trust me.”
And of course she did.
• * * * * * * *
Brad had everything perfectly arranged. It had required the use of many of his special “connections,” and of course had been quite expensive (Mary would be paying most of the bill anyway), but was definitely worth it.
The lab had been completely redecorated as a medieval dungeon, complete with stocks, a rack, and iron chains. The set-up might have looked ancient, but much of the equipment was quite high-tech. Of course, he did plan to eventually cure Mary, but hidden video cameras and microphones were scattered across the room, so he could save a record of her treatments for “posterity.”
The doorbell rang and he exited the lab and answered the door. It was Mary, looking very nervous and apprehensive, as expected. He escorted her inside and took her coat.
“Don’t be nervous,” Brad said, “I promise everything will be okay.”
He brought her into the lab, and she gasped in surprise as soon as she walked through the door.
“What a horrible place!” she cried.
“It must look as little like the ‘real’ world and as much like a nightmare as possible,” Brad said, “It’s all part of the therapy.”
She was breathing rapidly and biting her lower lip.
“Promise me I’ll be okay,” she asked.
“I promise,” he said, meeting her eyes, “Did you dress as I instructed?”
“Yes,” she replied, color rising to her cheeks.
“Okay then, take off your clothes.”
Brad tried not to gawk as Mary slowly undressed. Under her clothes she was wearing nothing but a tiny string bikini, and he was surprised at how perfect her body was. She had a full, curvaceous, firm, sexy body with large breasts. In spite of the warmth of the room her nipples protruded gently against the fabric of her bathing suit. It was the first time he had ever seen her hair hanging loosely around her face. She was exceptionally beautiful.
Brad led her over to the far side of the room where standard wooden stocks were located. She sat on the bench and put her bare feet through the padded openings, and the stocks were closed, securing her ankles in place. Brad set up a chair right in front of Mary’s helpless feet.
“Now don’t be frightened,” he said, secretly becoming aroused before he had even begun, “we’re simply going to get you used to the sensation of being tickled a little at a time, gradually.”
He pulled out a very soft, fluffy feather and slowly began running it up and down Mary’s feet. At first he just barely grazed the skin, and actually purposely avoided the most ticklish spots, such as the arches and undersides of the toes. Up and down the feather went, ever so lightly.
Mary immediately went insane. First she tried violently jerking her feet free of the stocks, but they held fast. Then she started pleading with Brad, while giggling uncontrollably at the same time.
“No! Please stop-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-he-no more-he-hee-hee-he-hee-It’s horrible!”
“Just try and relax,” Brad said, “Nothing bad will happen to you. You need to learn that you can get used to the sensation, and learn to be able to take it.”
“But it tickles so much!”
Brad evoked an even more frantic response as he moved on to a firmer touch and included the more sensitive areas of her feet. He gave her frequent rest periods and constantly reassured her. When he finally stopped, Mary was actually pleased with how she had handled the situation.
“I did it!” she said, smiling, “No one has tickled me like that in years and I’m okay! I made it!”
“I knew you would,” Brad said, “and with continued therapy your fear of being tickled in normal, everyday situations will disappear.”
Brad opened the upper portion of the stocks and placed Mary’s hands and neck in the padded openings. Now she was seated comfortably on the bench, but her bound feet, hands, and neck made her extremely vulnerable.
Mary’s body jerked uncontrollably as Brad ran the fluffy feather up and down her back, trailing goose bumps with the delicate touch. Mary squirmed and giggled, but maintained her control until the feather moved to her ultra-sensitive sides and underarms.
“Hee-hee-hee-hee NO! Not there, please!” she squealed.
Brad kept up the torment for about fifteen minutes, then stopped and released her.
“That’s all for today,” he said, “You did very well.”
In spite of her ordeal, she seemed upbeat and pleased. They arranged for her to return Thursday. After she left, Brad reviewed the videotapes of the day’s session—several times.
When she returned to the lab on Thursday Mary seemed like a new person. Grinning uncontrollably, her cheeks flushed pink, she told Brad how she and Donald had made love after her prior session, and twice a day since, and that it had never been better. Her fear of tickling, though still present, had partially improved. When they entered the lab Mary quickly slipped out of her clothes without being asked.
“Today’s session will be a little bit more intense,” Brad said, trying desperately to maintain his professionalism and not leer at her gorgeous, bikini-clad body, “But if all goes well there may only have to be one more session after this. You’re making even better progress than I had hoped.
He led her over to iron manacles that were hanging from the ceiling. The manacles were heavily padded, and when he closed them around her wrists she could just barely stand flat-footed on the floor. He stepped back to look at her extremely ticklish body stretched taught and dangling from the ceiling.
He started again with a feather, this time a long stiff one, and quickly attacked various defenseless targets. As he moved from tummy to armpits to ribs and back again, each touch of the feather would elicit a squeal from Mary. Brad decided it was time to increase the intensity of the torture a notch or two.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle,” he said, wiggling his fingers just inches from her armpits.
“No, please!” she screamed, and then immediately broke into hysterical laughter as he attacked her armpits mercilessly.
He tickled her armpits, sides, and stomach with his wiggling fingers, each for about five minutes with ample rest in between, then repeated the cycle again, and then again. Soon Mary was hanging limply from her restraints. Brad let her down and gave her a moment to rest.
“That was torture!” she exclaimed, but Brad noticed a little smile that suggested maybe a small part of her had actually enjoyed it.
“But look how far you’ve come in conquering your fears,” he pointed out.
He brought her over to a strange looking padded bench. The bench was large and sturdy. It had four legs. At one end the legs extended straight up above the level of the bench for five feet, forming two tall posts about six feet high perpendicular to the surface of the bench.
“I don’t like the looks of that thing,” she said.
He laid her down on her back with her legs facing the end with the two posts. He centered her hips directly under the posts and strapped her in place with a padded belt that went around her hipbones snugly, but not too tight. Padded manacles were used to hold her wrists to the bench. He then lifted each leg straight up and secured each ankle to its corresponding post using padded ankle cuffs. Mary was now secured and completely helpless. With Brad standing at the end of the bench her feet were just below eye level and her legs spread apart, making the backs of the legs and inner thighs readily accessible.
Again he started with the stiff feather. As it ran up and down the backs of her legs, pausing at the inside of the knee joints, she made a valiant effort to hold in her laughter, but soon she was gasping and pleading for him to stop. For thirty minutes that feather slowly teased her legs and feet, moving in and out between her toes, teasing her inner thighs as her frantic laughter filled the room. After a short rest he switched to tickling her feet and the undersides of her toes with his fingernails.
“NOOOO! Please stop! I can’t take anymore!” she screamed as he gradually increased the intensity of the torture, “HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-NOOOOOOO-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-I CAN’T-HO-HO-HO-HO-HO-STAND IT! PLEASE!!!!”
Just when he thought she was going to go insane he switched tactics and tickled the backs of her legs. She was particularly ticklish when he squeezed her thighs just above the buttocks, and he concentrated on that area for quite some time, and then switched back to her feet, which seemed to never desensitize to his touch. Finally, when he thought she might faint, he stopped his torture and untied her.
Once she caught her breath, Mary was quite angry about the severe tickling to which Brad had subjected her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “But it was necessary if you want to make a full recovery. You’re upset and angry now, but when you return for your final treatment in five days you’ll feel differently.”
“I’m not so sure I’ll be back,” she said.
But he knew she would be.
Mary did come back for her final session, and even Brad was shocked to see how she had been transformed. Her hair was down, and her short skirt and halter-top was quite a contrast with the stark, unattractive business suit she had worn at their first meeting. She held her head high with confidence and he returned her smile.
“Let’s get to work!” she said and walked directly into the lab.
Brad followed, a bit startled by her attitude, and upon entering the lab found her already removing her clothes. He was shocked to see that she was wearing nothing underneath, and was soon naked.
“Uh, Mary,” Brad started.
“I thought if this was going to be my last session I wanted to go as far as possible,” she said, “I want to know that I can live through the worst torment you can dish out.”
He brought her over to the huge rack in the center of the room. It looked as if it had came straight out of a medieval castle, but was actually covered in luxurious soft fur, and the manacles were heavily padded. He strapped her ankles and wrists into the restraints, and turned the giant locking wheel at the top of the rack until her naked, sexy body was stretched taught on the table. Her arms were high over her head and her legs were spread far apart. The table slanted ever so slightly, so her feet were slightly lower than her head.
“Is that too tight?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
Brad picked up one huge fluffy peacock feather in each hand. He didn’t plan to waste much time with the feathers today, but wanted to get Mary into the appropriate mood. He began lightly running the feathers all over her body, from her armpits to her feet, as she squirmed and giggled. She could barely move on the soft table.
“Today’s your final session,” Brad said, continuing the teasing with the feathers, “and when you leave here I believe you will be permanently cured. I will be merciless—no matter how much you beg and plead the tickling will only stop when I say so. You will be my tickle slave, and I will find the most ticklish spots on your body and torture you.”
Mary’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything.
Brad put the feathers aside and moved to the “foot” of the rack, where Mary’s bound feet just barely hung over the edge.
“Your feet are quite ticklish aren’t they?” he taunted, “Itchy-kitchy-coo, Mary.”
He attacked the left foot with his fingers, starting gently at first, then eventually vigorously scratching the soul while she howled with laughter. Even with no chance of escape she frantically and involuntarily tried to break free of her bonds. While continuing to tickle her left sole he leaned forward and began darting his tongue in and out between her toes. Mary simply couldn’t stand such devious torture.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!-HA-HA-HAHO-HO-HO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” her screams eventually becoming convulsive silent laughter with an occasional futile gasp for breath.
Brad calmly applied the exact same torture to the other foot, taking his time on each one, and then finished by using his fingers on both feet at the same time. Mary had stopped struggling, her entire being focused on her feet and her body consumed with laughter. Brad stopped and gave Mary a break.
“OH MY GOD!!!” she said after catching her breath, “That was unbearable!”
“You aren’t trying to give up already are you?”
“No,” she said, blushing slightly.
Brad picked up two small stiff feathers and straddled her chest. He waved the fathers menacingly over her armpits.
“Think you can handle my next torture?” he asked, “I seem to remember your armpits being quite sensitive. Tickle, tickle…the feathers are getting closer…tickle, tickle, tickle!”
As he slowly lowered the feathers she started giggling and struggling before they even touched her skin. She squealed hysterically, laughing and begging and pleading as the feathers began teasing her sensitive armpits. After ten minutes Brad dropped the feathers, prodding and stroking the soft skin with his fingers. Again Mary progressed to hysterical laughter, and eventually threw her head back, her mouth open in a huge grin, her body silently convulsing while she occasionally gasped a huge gulp of air. He forced her to endure this for fifteen minutes before stopping and allowing her to catch her breath again.
“No more, please!” she cried, “That’s all I can take! That’s it! I can’t stand another minute! Please, I’m begging you!”
Brad ignored her pleas.
“We’re almost through,” he said soothingly, “Just hang in there and you’ll be free of this problem forever.”
As she continued begging for mercy Brad set up the final, and most devastating, phase of her treatment. He rolled out the four pieces of equipment that he had had specially designed by a close personal friend—and they certainly were not inexpensive. These devices were tickling machines, but nothing so crude as the wiggling feathers or feathered wheels found in cartoons and fiction. These were very sophisticated robotic devices, which used laser guidance, and electronic sensors to determine target location and apply appropriate pressure. He hoped they would work as planned.
Ignoring Mary’s frantic begging, he wheeled the two devices designed for the feet into place. They each locked into position in special brackets at the end of the table, just inches from Mary’s immobile feet. He firmly tied each big toe to an eyelet on each ankle brace. He then placed each machine’s four fluffy feathers between each of Mary’s toes. A small device that looked like a cross between a fork and a miniature back-scratcher rested on each sole.
He moved the other two devices to either side of the table and attached them to the brackets near Mary’s armpits. They locked in place less than an inch from each immobile pit, and each machine had four “utensils” protruding from them that rested on the skin—two that were stiff feathers, and two that were rubber probes covered with soft fur.
“What are you doing?” Mary demanded as Brad placed a soft black blindfold over her eyes.
“You must be as helpless as possible in order to maximize the torture,” Brad replied deviously, “If you’re blindfolded you can’t see where the next attack will be. And, let the games begin.”
With that Brad flicked the switch on the machine at Mary’s left foot. The four feathers started moving in and out between her toes, randomly adjusting their frequency from slow to vigorously fast and back again. The small fork-like device moved quickly over the entire sole, adjusting itself to apply the maximum force without causing pain, and the electric eyes made sure that the device covered the entire foot.
The result was even more devastating than Brad had hoped, and soon she was laughing at least as hard as she had been when he was tickling her feet himself. He turned on the machine at her other foot so it would receive the same treatment.
“GOD! NOOOO!” she screamed between gales of hysterical laughter, “NO MORE! I’LL DIE! PLEASE STOP!!!!!!!!!!”
But Brad was just getting started. He turned on the machine at her left armpit and watched as it whirred into motion. The feathers rotated like dervishes against the soft skin, and the fur covered probes poked, rubbed, and prodded the skin with just the right amount of force. He turned on the final machine and stepped back to watch.
Poor Mary was beside herself. Laughing, gasping, snorting, struggling, screaming…but in no way avoiding any of the horrible tickling. For the third time that day Mary’s body convulsed in silent laughter. She was unable to struggle. She had completely lost all control.
Brad was determined to push her beyond all human endurance. He climbed up next to her on the table and started to maniacally tickle her ribs. He poked, prodded, and tweaked her ribs again and again. He knew he was adding to her torment as he saw her begin to struggle again and laugh even harder, something that he didn’t think possible. Then, so she wouldn’t get too used to any one sensation, he switched to her ultra-ticklish sides, and then after five minutes of this he moved to her knees, alternately squeezing the kneecaps and tickling the undersides. He then went back to the ribs, the stomach and sides, the legs, the knees, and back again…over and over, while the four tickling machines continued their torment. After thirty minutes of torture Mary lost control of her bladder and he was sure that she would faint, but she never did. He even tickled her breasts, messaging their sides and tweaking the nipples gently. After forty-five minutes of nonstop silent laughter Brad decided that she had had enough—it wouldn’t be fair to continue. If he didn’t know it was for her own good he would almost have felt guilty pushing someone who was so incredibly ticklish to such extremes—almost.
He stopped the tickling, removed the four machines, and untied Mary. She had lost control to such an extent that it took quite a while for her to realize that the tickling had stopped. After untying her he put on a pair of super soft, luxurious fur gloves and caressed her body from head to toe, calming her down. She couldn’t speak for quite some time.
“I can’t imagine any worse torture in the world,” she finally said.
“I’m sorry,” Brad replied, “But it had to be done. You’re finally cured.”
“I know,” she said, “Thank you.”
• * * * * * * *
About two months later Brad was going through the mail at his office, when he came upon a letter from Mary. He opened it and saw that it was handwritten on heavy white stationary.
Dear Brad,
I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. I never realized until after we finished my treatment how much my phobia had been affecting my life. I’ve never been happier. My marriage is stronger than ever, and my problems with intimacy seem to have disappeared permanently. Donald and I simply can’t thank you enough. One of my closest friends has seen my miraculous transformation and, if it is acceptable to you, I will be referring her to you for treatment of a similar problem.
I did have two questions however. First of all, is any of your “laboratory equipment” available for home use? And, secondly, do you need a laboratory assistant?
Thank you again.
Sincerely,
Mary Greenman
