Hello TMFers!! It's been a while since I posted my last story. That being said, I have a new one for your enjoyment. To my few but loyal readers thank you for your continuous support and to those reading my fiction for the first time, thank you as well for taking a chance on me. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.
It’s the end of another long hostess shift in a small little country type diner. The racket of clattering plates and loud talking is drowned out as the door closes behind me and I exit. I take a brisk stride towards my car that’s got about as many dings in it as it does miles and tires so thin I can feel even the slightest bump on the road. I yank the door open and the smell of cheap greasy fries scent the dingy worn interior. After three chokes of the engine my shit box sputters to life and I make my way down to the elementary where my kids are already out and waiting for me among the final few students left to be picked up. I can always count on them to brighten my day. They have no sense of our situation and thus Tyler and Clark haven’t a worry in the world. I don’t blame them. It’s not their job to worry, it’s mine.
The evening goes about as usual in our shabby home. There’s nothing elaborate about it. We eat an inexpensive meal, and then disburse. The television always draws my kid’s attention after dinner and I use this time to search for another job on the internet. The market for work is vast, but I have little to no experience with a majority of job details and as such am limited in my options. Mostly restaurant jobs call my name. Having been working as a hostess for much of my life, it’s something I can do well, and I scan the classifies hoping to find an opening. I sift my weary eyes up and down the blinding white screen disregarding anything that requires college credits. It isn’t until the third page that something catches my eyes in a big way. In a small 4x4 square is an advertisement that reads “Wanted: Mature females for foot fetish shoots”. The text almost seems to jump off the screen at me and the money symbols that border the ad are very appealing. If I know one thing it’s that I am a mature woman no if, ands or maybes. I’d also heard of foot fetishes. To me people with that kind of mindset come off as weird, but for some odd reason they seem to be willing to pay money to watch women display their feet. With really nothing left to lose I dial up the number on the ad.
The phone only rings twice before a deep rich voice answers on the other end, “Hello?”
For some reason I ice up. The words I’m searching for will just not come to my mouth. It’s as if I’m choking.
He speaks again, only louder this time, “HELLO?”
This time through a crackled voice, I respond, “H-Hi, I’m calling in regards t-to the fetish shoot?”
The man breaths deep, “Oh, well why didn’t you say so? We are currently accepting applicants. If you’re interested, I encourage you to stop on by.”
“Oh-oh y-yes sir, I am. I could really use the payday. Would you mind explaining a little more about what you do?” I ask.
“Oh I wouldn’t worry about the fine print, unless you know, you get the job.” He says.
For some reason I don’t rebuttal him. His statement makes sense; I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. After gathering a pen and pad I jot down the address to where I can meet him. In a reassuring tone he lets me know there’s no funny business and that his outfit is strictly professional like that. No sooner do we hang up, that my own fears and doubts begin to loom over me. Although it’s only a fetish shoot the thought crosses my mind, “Am I attractive enough?” I turn to my reflection. My face is riddled with tiny wrinkles around my eyes. My once pouty lips have since become thin and cracked. As I stand I take notice of my bulging midsection and breathe deep in an effort to conceal it, “How long can I keep this posture?” I ask myself. I relax my body and my tummy inflates back to where it’s comfortable.
I sigh at my situation and neatly compile my bills into one small stack. The computer screen fades to black as I shut it down and I turn away from my troubles, at least for the moment. With a heavy heart I shuffle to my children’s room to force them into bed. Tomorrow there will be an unusual twist in my schedule. This night my usual worries don’t keep me awake. It’s the thought of what is to come should I pursue this. My cluelessness keeps me wondering just what’s in store for me once this all goes down. At long last I lose the battle between sleep and consciousness. It feels like the blink of an eye that night turns to morning and the moon becomes the sun creeping through my curtains. I hate those nights. It’s almost as if though I didn’t get a chance to enjoy my sleep. I shuffle out of bed and flatten out the wrinkles of my faded night gown. It’s got a tiny hole right under my left breast, but despite its flaws I enjoy how comfortable it feels draped over my body.
As usual my children have no initiative. I flip the light to their room on and they quickly cower under their sheets for protection, “Wake up guys! Time for school!!” I shout. I forcefully whip the sheets off them and watch as their faces light up at my efforts. Tyler and Clark crawl out of bed in a zombie like fashion and scoot their way to the bathroom.
With the kids up I quickly slip into my restaurant uniform which is a basic set of black pants and a crisp white polo shirt. I’ve never understood why the restaurant business likes white. It’s impossible to keep clean and by the end of the day there is practically a meal on my shirt from all the mess customers make.
With what little time there is left I have to decide between applying make-up and feeding my boys a complete balanced breakfast. I choose the latter and prepare breakfast sandwiches of ham egg and cheese. In a jiffy my hungry boys eat their sandwiches and what took me ten minutes to make is gone in less than three.
My morning takes on its usual routine. Traffic is piled up at the boy’s school and the needle on my gas meter is so low it’s threatening to fall off as my shit box runs on fumes.
Sure enough my day is littered with loud banter and occasional rude customers. Not unlike a normal day at the diner. One thing however continues to plague my mind, something that’s keeping me from being a hundred percent focused on my job. I am really going to go through with this?
Evening comes no sooner or later than usual and I’ve placed my boys in the security of my younger sister Jane. She questions where I am headed so late in the day and I tell her I’m off for a job interview. Not a lie. Technically I am. We leave it at that and before long I am outside a studio apartment complex, filled with doubts.
At the very least I’d managed to sort out my ensemble. From ankle to mid-waist my body is tightly secured in solid black compression leggings. They undoubtedly help tighten my thighs and keep the jiggling to a minimum. Draped over the top of my body, a slightly snug red blouse with butterfly silhouettes.
I knock on the door. I hear an echo as if the room behind it is empty. It doesn’t take long for a young man to come to the door and flash me a heartwarming smile, “Good evening, Miss?”
“D-Diane.” I mumbled.
“You sure about that?” His eyebrow rises.
I lower my head and stare down at my feet, “Eh, Yes.” I nod.
“Well come in.” He ushers me into a medium sized complex.
The air is crisp and I feel a slight chill on my skin as I follow him into the room. The walls are a sky blue shade and aside from a generic picture frame they are bare. To the left is a black leather couch big enough for three. He points to it and I plop myself down onto it. The material is cool to the touch and enviably comfortable. After the day I’ve had, I could fall asleep.
“My name is Arman. Let’s talk.” He sits down. His chiseled physic is noticeable through the plain white t-shirt he wears and when his blue eyes catch mine it’s piercing.
“Arman, nice to meet you.” I do my best to keep my posture as flattering as possible.
“I’m glad you didn’t chicken out. How was your commute?”
“Oh, I REALLY need this, and my drive over here was, well interesting.”
“Interesting? How?”
“Well I spent most of it debating whether I should turn the car back around and go home.” I threw my hands up like a weight scale.
“Ah, I see. Well you have NOTHING to worry about Diane. Like I explained over the phone, this is a strictly professional business. Anything you aren’t comfortable with we won’t force you to do.” He strokes his stubble.
My heart is throbbing so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t heard it, “Well this is a fetish shoot right? I mean what exactly would you have me doing?”
He flashes a smile, “Well, It’s not so much what you’d be doing, rather what would be being done to you.”
I feel a lump in my throat, “A-and w-what’s that?”
“Tickling.”
My head cocks back, “I beg your pardon?”
“You’d be getting tickled!”
“What?” I almost cackle at the thought.
“Aren’t you ticklish? Everybody is.”
I shrug my shoulders, “Not sure. I mean tickling? That’s kid stuff.” The idea sounds ridiculous and I feel as though I’ve just wasted time and gas.
“Yeah, you would think. Allow me to enlighten you.” He takes my hand and leads me to a small room filled with computers, laptops and piles of cables and wire.
He opens the internet to a website called the Tickling Media Forum, over a hundred thousand followers. Hundreds of pictures and video clips flood the threads and now I see that the adolescent pastime is in fact bigger than I ever imagined. My jaw drops in awe.
He chuckles, “Still think it’s kid stuff?”
“Oh boy.” That’s all I could say.
“Not to rush this, but have you changed your mind?”
“Weeell, now I don’t know if I can handle this.” I bite my lip, “Those video clips are frightening.”
“Oh, you have nothing to worry about. We always take it easy on first timers, and don’t you NEED the money?” His eyes lock with mine.
“Well that is true. How much are we talking about here?” I place my hands on my hips.
“I’ll have to test you first, but if you pass the test, you’ll be looking at two hundred and fifty dollars upfront.”
I don’t answer immediately. Two hundred and fifty dollars? Is that what I’m worth? Two hundred and fifty dollars is an electric bill and a water bill collectively.
“Well?” He asks.
`I think of Tyler and Clark, my sons. They’re what I live for. It’s because I love them that I’m here. I swear ourselves a better life, no matter what.
“I’ll do it.”
We’re back at the sofa. Arman has equipped himself with a pen and pad, “Well just like any job, I like to conduct brief interviews with my candidates before we actually get started.”
“I see nothing wrong with that.” I breathe ever so softly.
“What is your shoe size Diane?” He points his pen toward my shabby sneakers.
“Size six.” I move my foot in a circular motion.
“And, how tall are you?”
“Oh, I’m not sure, about 5’7, on a good day he-he.”
“Customarily we would request an I.D to verify that you’re of legal age, but…”
“…I know, I know. I’m old.”
“No, no. You’re mature. And might I say, very pretty.”
“Why thank you.” I force a smile. Why does he have to lie right to my face? Doesn’t he see what I see in the mirror?
“Do you have any hobbies?”
I ponder this one.
“Well?” He pushes.
“Legos.”
“Hu?” His smile fades.
“My kids love to play with Legos and I enjoy helping them build things out of them.” I cannot believe I just said that.
“Very well. Have you ever been tickled?” His smile returns.
I shake my head, “No. Not since I was a little girl anyways.”
“And do you remember what that was like? I mean who would tickle you?”
My eyes roll back as if they could reach the cervix of my mind that holds old memories, “My cousins. Always my cousins.”
"Why would they?”
“I think they just enjoyed watching me suffer.” I honestly didn’t know their motive, but if they could see me now I’m sure they’d be wiggling their fingers mischievously.
“Have you ever been restrained before?”
“No.”
“How do you think you’ll handle being restrained and tickled?”
“Not well. Not well at all.”
“And why not?”
I’m slightly annoyed by this question. He of all people should know the answer, but I appease him anyway, “Well, when you’re getting tickled, your first reaction is to make them stop. When you can’t do that…”
“I know right? Sounds sadistic?”
I feel a tingling up my spine as the word “sadistic” escapes his lips, “Yes, defiantly.”
He puts the pen and pad on the floor, “Alright, let’s run a preliminary. Let’s see those feet.” He motions me to turn towards him.
I lift my legs and place my feet on his lap. I reach out to untie my sneakers, but he shoos my hand away, “I’ll handle that.” He smiles.
I watch as first my laces are undone. Then the shoe tongues are loosened. Finally he slips them off my feet leaving only a thin pair of pink socks covering my soles.
He drops my shoes to the ground, “Aw, such pretty pink socks.” He smiles.
I try my best not to blush, “Yeah?”
He answers me. Not with words, but with a single finger stroke up my left arch. My foot reflexively jerks back, “Ooo we’re starting?”
He doesn’t reply. Instead he continues to stroke my feet.
I feel a small surge of irritating sensations escalate from my soles, “ha-ooo that’s starting to t-tickle!” I gasp. My foot again subconsciously twitches away from his fingers.
“Hold still.” He says in a slightly stern voice.
From the sound in his voice he’s turned on the professionalism and I do my best to comply, “I-I’m sorry, it’s only…”
“Natural?” he looks up and flashes me a smile.
I bite my lip and nod.
With a firm grip he clamps down on my ankles. His strong hand keeps me still while his other scribbles up and down my arches, “Yi-k-k-a-he-he-he!” I feel my cheeks turning rose red and I fan my face in an effort to conceal it.
“Perfectly natural Diane. Just what I like.” He slips off my socks. My creamy white soles are now more vulnerable than ever, “Ah your feet. So delicate, so ripe!” His eyes feast almost as if though he was staring at the most mouthwatering meal he’d ever seen.
I scrunch my toes in anticipation of his fingertips, “J-just do it alr-r-ready.” I demand.
“My, my aren’t we testy.” He eases his index finger onto the heel of my foot.
The touch alone makes me jump off my butt, “Aye!” I squeak.
“Careful what you wish for, DIANE!” He continues his light ascend on my left arch which feels like tiny insects crawling,
I do my best to wriggle free, but his grip is too strong, “Eh-yee-tee-he-he-ooo-that’s goooooda-ha-ooo-whee-he-he!” I quickly clasp my smile with both hands slightly surprised at my own reactions.
Arman pays me no mind as he switches over to my right foot, “can’t neglect this one!”
I shake my head, “Oh y-y-yes you can!” I stammer hoping he’ll agree.
“Ah, but it wouldn’t be fair. I wouldn’t want your right foot to feel left out!” He teases.
I’m about to rebuttal when an unbearable prickle captivates my senses, “HA-WHOOO-COO-HEE-SHEEE-HE-HE-PSHH-OH BOY!” It’s all I can do not to swear at Arman.
He rubs his thumbnail in a vigorous up and down motion along the side of my foot, “Ah! Is it possible that your right is even more ticklish than your left?” He quips.
“Ah-Ka-HA-H-H-HOW’S TH-THAT-POSSIBLE?!”
“It’s been known to happen.” He chirps. In an instant Arman releases my feet and plops his bottom onto my lap, “Well your feet definitely pass the test, but how about your upper body?”
I self-consciously suck in my tummy, “Oh dear, now about-t that-t-t!” I’m not given a chance to speak my piece before Arman’s fingers thrust into my ribs, “-tee-he-he-eh-ooo-HA!” The eccentric sensations make it impossible to focus on sucking in my stomach.
He quickly backs off, “Well that answers that!” He gets up and makes off towards a room. When he returns there’s a small digital camera in his possession, “Say cheese!”
I’m a fish out of water. I don’t belong here and with this mindset I have to force a smile. I stretch my neck out to avoid a double chin and prop my chest out in the fight against gravity to show off my breast. I smile wide to accentuate my most compelling feature, a set of dimples perfectly aligned on each cheek.
After a couple of pictures of me Arman focuses the lens directly on my feet and he snaps away at various angles. I do my best to pose my feet, “Is this…sexy?” I ask while stretching my toes.
“Perfect.” He stands to his feet again, “Now if you’ll follow me.”
He leads me to a small room with a king sized bed at center stage. Two bright lights illuminate the satin; crème colored sheets and at each bedpost are black Velcro straps I can only assume are to secure my limbs. Mounted on a tripod is a standard digital video recorder which will undoubtedly be capturing the events to follow in the next half hour. Ever so subtly I sit on the bed.
“Right there is fine.” He asks me to stay put, “Now allow me to lay down the law, as it were.”
“Okay.” I purse my lips.
“Once again you understand you will be restrained?”
“Uh-hu.”
“Very good. During the shoot if at any time you feel as though you cannot continue we will issue a safe word for you to use.”
“S-safe word?”
“Yes. Saying this word will put a halt to the action for a brief period, but will also cost you ten percent of your total earnings for every time you say it.” He explains calmly.
“Oooh.” I shriek at the thought.
“What will your safe word be? It should be the first word that comes to mind.” He scratches his beard.
“Peanut butter.” I maybe should have thought about it more.
“Ha, Peanut Butter?”
“You did say the first thing that comes to mind, and my kids love that stuff. They can’t get enough. They will eat it with a spoon when we’re out of bread!” I banter.
“Well it’ll do, and you’ll be able to buy SEVERAL jars of peanut butter after this is over.” He chuckles.
We exchange glances. There’s an awkward silence before he eventually ushers me to lie down. I nervously press my back to the mattress. It’s undeniably more comfortable than the one I own and under different circumstances I’d be inclined to fall asleep. Arman takes to tying my ankles down first. I allow him full control of my legs as he positions them just where he needs them, “RRRRIIPPP!” The straps are opened and my ankles are slid into place. I can’t stand to watch so I focus my attention on a small poster of The Beatles which hangs by thumbtacks on the wall to my right. At the very least, it’s nice to know he has good taste in music.
He breaks my thoughts, “Not to tight?” He taps my ankles.
I have to refocus myself, giving each restraint a slight tug, “Nope, they’re good.”
Arman works his way to my arms which I extend above my head and to the corners of the bed. He gently wraps the straps around my wrist careful not to scratch my skin with the rough material. Again he asks if they’re on too tight, which they are not. Up to this point he’s been so dainty with me; a trait I know will disappear once the camera starts rolling.
My vulnerability is never more surfaced as it is now. The realization that I cannot escape my bounds without his assistance has me nervous as Hell. It’s only normal to question his trustworthiness after I’m completely at his mercy. Perhaps I should have brought a friend? Yeah that would have been smart in case this guy turns out to be nuts! It’s not easy, but I manage to reassure myself I didn’t make a mistake .
In my mental quarrel I failed to notice he’d already situated his camera at my feet, “Ready?” He raises his eyebrows.
I prop my head up to lock eyes with him, “Of course NOT!” I say though pursed lips.
He chuckles and slaps his knee, “Well I am!” He gestures.
I roll my eyes, “Of course YOU are! You’re not on the receiving end!” I shoot back.
“Ha, alright let’s get started. Remember you can say, “stop” or “no” pretty much anything you want, but if you say, “peanut butter” that’s the magic word that makes everything stop. Understood?”
I nod, “Got it.”
“Oh and one more thing, PLEASE try your best NOT to fight the restraints. You’ll only be hurting yourself. I guarantee you’re not going to break them so don’t even try. Just give in to the tickling.” He shoots me a serious glance.
I raise a brow, “Oh yes sir!” I would have saluted had my arms been free.
“Lastly, and I tell all my girls this, YOU,” he points at me, “you are in control. You may be restrained, but you control this.” He waves his hands around the room.
I'm not sure what he means by that, given my situation I feel more at his mercy than ever. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a, “beep” an indication that the camera is recording. All that’s left for me to do is endure. Since no mention was made as to how long the shoot would be I can only assume it’s over at his discretion.
It starts with a light scribble on my left sole, “Told you I’d start easy he-he-he.”
The sensations are subtle evoking my foot to twitch left to right, “OOO-HEY-HE-HE-HE-WAIT-I-I-AH-HA-HA!” I’m not ready, but my sporadic giggles keep me from completing my sentence.
“What? You’re not ready?” He mocks. His fingers take a stronger approach delving deeper into my plush sole.
The bastard knew, “HA-WHOOO-HE-GEE-GEE-OH BOY-OOH BOY-WHEE-HE-HE-HE-YEE-MY GOD!” I sputter. That’s all I can do.
From pinky to index finger he strikes my arch in rapid succession making sure to cover every inch of foot, “Where ya gonna go? Where ya gonna go?” he taunts my ever moving foot.
He’s right. I can twitch my foot this way and that, but my movement is so limited it does nothing to hinder his hands, “OH-JA-HA-HA-HA-NEE-EE-HE-HE-HE OH GOD!” I scream.
His fingernails scrape the ball of my foot with such exuberance the sensations make my entire leg wobble. Arman’s advice not to fight the restraints must be far off into the distance or perhaps my leg didn’t get the memo because it’s furiously fighting to get free, “I’m sorry does that tickle?” he taunts.
Perhaps it’s a good thing I’m tied up, because after that comment…I could strangle him, “HA-HA-HA-GEEE-GEEE-UUUUGGGHH! OH-OH-WHOOO-HOO-OOO-ST-ST-STOP!” I’m absolutely spastic.
I feel Arman’s fingers withdraw. He listened? The tingling sensation slowly subsides and I’m left to catch my breath, “Breathe deep Diane. We’re just getting started.”
I perk my head up, “J-J-Just getting STARTED?!” I hate him right now. I really do. So much for taking it easy on the new girl, “Arman please…”
“Begging already?”
I’d answer, but decide my time might be better spent collecting my breath. And I’m right. The next feeling on my feet is that of a hundred rubber bristles in a side swiping motion which sends goose bumps up my skin, “W-WH-HAAAT’S THAT?! TA-HA-HA-HA-OOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-KA-KAA-HA-HA-HA!”
“It’s a hairbrush silly! Don’t you know what a hairbrush feels like?” He jokes.
My legs thrash violently against their restraints, “AHHH-HA-HA-HA-H-H-HAIR BRUSHEEEESSS-SE-ARE FOR HAIR!”
I’ve never thought of a comb as a tickle torture device and even now that it’s being raked against my soles I’m still having trouble comprehending the whole idea. Then again, how much comprehension can be accomplished when my mind is flooded with the insatiable desire to laugh? Through squinted eyes I manage to gaze on Arman for just two seconds. His complete attention is on the task at hand, my feet. He strikes my arches with such vivacity it’s as if he is playing Yo-Yo Ma’s Cello Suite #1 to a grand audience. And perhaps he is. Perhaps this is his concerto, and my feet are little instruments. After all he is getting some sounds out of me, he’s making me laugh and that’s melody in and of itself.
The prickling sensation comes to a stop as Arman stands and repositions the camera directly at my face. I can only imagine the facial expressions he’s going to capture on film, “Oh boy that’s a rush!” I exclaim through deep breaths.
We locks eyes and he smiles, “It is, and I must say you’re handling it well for a first timer.” He stokes a lock of my curly brown hair away from my face.
It isn’t till he touches my hair that I remember the thin streaks of gray that have been slowly creeping up on me. I completely neglected coloring them earlier in the week and now I regret not having done so. It seems as though Arman too has noticed them because he chuckles and says, “Ooo hot mama alert!” The hairs on my neck stand up as his fingertips graze my scalp and he strokes my hair again, a sensation I find welcoming. He only stokes my hair for a second more, “Shall we continue?” It’s not a question. His actions suggest it isn’t because he’s back at my feet looking to administer more torment.
I clench my fists into balls and grit my teeth tight bracing my body for impact, but let’s face it, no amount of preparedness can predict what’s coming. It’s my other foot; my right foot; the even more ticklish one. It starts as similarly as it did for my left foot. I feel his fingers lightly graze my skin, hardly making contact with my skin, but still enough to make me tic, “OOOH-NOT THE R-RIGHT!” I plead. My words fall on deaf ears. Or do they? Because it seems the moment I ask him not to, he proceeds with more enthusiasm.
His fingers are now in full contact of my sole. Quick strokes streak up and down my arch igniting my nerve endings to an unspeakable fathom. I still can’t comprehend how one foot could be more responsive than the other, but it’s not for me to understand, at least not at this particular time. Just accept it and laugh Diane, “HA-HA-HAAA-AYE-EEE-HE-HE-HE-S-STOP IT S-T-T-STOP EET-TEE-HE-HE-HE!” I shriek. Amidst my head whipping up and down I notice Arman completely zoned out on his work, “HEYY-EE-HE-HE-HE! THAT TICKLES!”
My comment makes him glance up, “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.” He smiles wide.
I’m reminded of the Joker from Batman and the evil grin he always wears, “YASSS! OH SHIT OH SHIT-T-TEE-HE-HE-HE-WHOOO-HA-HA-HA *GASP*!” I cursed? Me?
“Language Diane! What would your kids say?” He teases.
I lower my lip in shame, “Sorry…” I whisper.
The conversation is kept short as he lowers his head again and continues apply his fingers onto the crease where my toes connect. It’s a tender area, and I jump reflexively as his nails excavate the microscopic bits of lint that have collected there over the course of the day. I scrunch my foot down hoping somehow that will block his assault. It doesn’t. BIG surprise. In fact it only encourages him to peel my toes back till the skin on my foot is as tight as possible, “Trying to give me a hard time eh? For that you get the…”
Hairbrush. The damn thing feels like his fingers multiplied times ten, “S-S-SOOOHH SORRYEEE-YEE-HE-HE-*GASP*HA-HA-HA-HA OH GAWD OH MYYY AYE AYEEE-HEE-HEE-HEE TOO MUCH!” My arms instinctively flail about to the limits of my restraints hopelessly longing to break loose, “P-PLEASE STOOOP PUHLEEEE-HE-HE-HEEEZE! OH GAWD! OH GAWDA-HA-HA-HA-NO! STOP IT *GASP* STOP IT I SAYEE-HE-HE-HE-OOOH-HA-HA-HA!”
“Sounds like I’ve hit the jackpot!” Arman has to yell over my laughter to be audible.
His relentless effort on my foot is becoming overbearing. I can’t remember the last time I laughed THIS hard and there’s a slight discomfort in my belly as a result. It’s a pain I vaguely recall from my running days. Okay so there were only like three of them, but still it felt like that. I consider the safe word, Peanut Butter. Two words really, but the only ones that can put a pause to this torture. Then again, is it worth ten percent?
Almost as if he could read my thoughts Arman spoke up, “Hmm… sounds like somebody could use some... P-P…Pe-Pe…” The word trickled from the tip of his tongue making the idea float around that much more in my head.
I shook my head violently, “NO! NEVER!” I resisted the urge.
To my surprise Arman abandons the brush, “Ah, someone, wants their FULL paycheck today!” He almost sounds impressed as he gets up from the foot of the bed.
I’m breathing hard; too hard to make a witty comeback. I take this opportunity to lie completely still. Aside from my eyes which now follow his every move, my body’s limp. My thoughts go out to my kids. Had they finished their homework? Did they eat the dinner I left them? Were they drilling Jane on my whereabouts? I can only hope the television will work its magic and keep them entertained, keep them from calling.
Arman sits at my right and twists his waist to face me, “Don’t worry, you’re doing fantastic.” He must have noticed the look of concern on my face, “Now tell me Diane, are your armpits ticklish?” He smiles.
I force a smirk, (something I won’t have to do in a few seconds) and nod, “Mmm-hmm.”
He starts with light spiderlike strokes that descend from my elbows down the curvy fullness of my soft arms. Goose bumps stand at attention as he closes in on my underarms. I shut my eyes and tighten my jaw in a false pretense that I can keep composed. He thrusts my tender hollows without warning, “WH-WAITEEE-TEE-HE-HE-HE-OOOH-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA-HA*GASP*OH PU-PU-LEEEASE SS-SS OOH-HA-HA-HA MY GAWD!” What did I tell you? I totally caved.
His fingers dig around as if he’s searching for something. What could he be looking for? The answer comes in the form of a titillating rush of sensations as he touches the most sunken portion of my underarms.
The feeling sends my body into spastic left and right thrashes, “HA-HA-HA-HA-AHHH-HA-HA-NOOO P-PLEE-HE-HE-HE YIKES!” I babble.
He uses all his fingers to collectively focus on one spot and it is torture. He’s hunched over me smiling. He probably hears “Cha-Ching!” with every outburst of laughter he squeezes out of me, “Had enough?” He taunts.
“AHH-HA-HA-HA-WHEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-ARMAN PLEASE-SS-SS-EEH-EEH-HA-HA-HA-SWEET JESUS!”
“You know what you have to say!” His fingers recede back to lightly dancing on the surface of my armpits.
I mustn’t.
“Just say it.” His fingers move in circular motion tracing every imperfection of my delicate skin.
The bastard. He really is trying his damndest to make me say it, but I’ve got to refrain. I scrunch my face as his fingertips glide back up to my elbows then back down again. In a pointless effort I yank at my restraints. Nope. They’re on so secure there’s no way I’m slipping my hands free.
He continues a light grazing which is driving me INSANE because I have no hope of knowing when he’ll go mental on me again. Then he does something that I did not foresee… a sneak attack on my ribs!!
My reaction must have been priceless because his eyes grew wide as if he’d struck gold, “never underestimate the element of…”
“SURPISEEEE-EEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-TEE-WHOO-HOO-HOO-SWEET JESUS-NOOOO-HO-HO-HO!” I blurt.
“Now you’re learning.”
His thumbs massage my ribs with such intensity he’s got me bucking like a bronco. The last time I did this much up and down motion Tyler was conceived. I never imagined it being this bad, and now I can almost taste peanut butter on the tip of my tongue, “AAHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA-OOOH Y-YOU BAD BOYA-AH-HA-HA! RESPECT Y-Y-OUR ELDERS!” I know it’s a cliché, but it’s the best my flustered brain can come up with.
He stops and takes a triumphant pose over me, “It must bother you that a man half your age has you losing your mind. Remember, you handed me the rights to tickle you. It’s not like I put a gun to your head.”
I don’t know if it is his pompous behavior or the fact that I know he was right, but inside, I am fuming. It also bothers me that he’s reminded me just how old I am, and in this moment, I feel embarrassed to be here. I can’t believe I agreed to this.
He must have taken notice of my discomfort because he quickly jumps off his high horse, “I’m sorry. That was totally rude of me.” He sat beside me and softly stroked my hair back into place. “I should have left your age out of this.”
Although it still hurt, his apology felt sincere and I forgave him for his abrupt behavior. I made him promise never to do that again.
“Just a heads up, I’ll be sliding your top up a bit so I can get at your midsection, so don’t go bananas okay?” He waited for my approval.
“That’s fine.” I nodded. No that is not fine. My midsection? The last time I dared to stare at it in the mirror it looked like a bowl of gelatin desert. Well it’s too late now. He’s already lifting up my little blouse and the cold air strikes my skin letting me know I’m exposed. At the very least I have my compression pants all the way up to my… oh wait he’s peeling them down too.
“Much better. Thought you could hide such deliciousness from ME?” His hands caress my supple stomach.
“Oooh I- I guess not!” I play along. Who’s hiding? And what “deliciousness” is he talking about? All I see is an unsightly bulge. Perhaps he’s got x-ray vision and can see the cheeseburger and fries I had for lunch?
His fingers dance on my suppleness lightly gliding around getting familiar with the workspace. His touch makes my body flinch, “HE-HE-HE-EEE-HE-HE-EXPLORING?” I enquire.
My comment makes him chuckle, “Yes. So far I like the terrain. Very…” his index fingers poke about making me jolt, “soft.”
Now my heart’s racing faster almost as if my body can sense he’s on the verge, “Oooh yes, yes very softttee-HE-HE-HE OOOH-HE-HE-HE-HE!”
His fingers poke me up and down my sides as if he was pressing every button on an elevator, “Is this your WORST spot?”
“EH-HE-HE-HE-Nope!” I answer quickly, although my bodies constant twitching would suggest otherwise.
“Well then I guess you won’t mind…” Arman plunges his fingers into my belly, “if I see for myself?”
The sudden thrust of his fingers sends my hips upwards. Wait, why am I moving in HIS direction? Ugh, my body’s confused, “HA-HA-HA-HA-OOOH-HOO-HOO-GEE-GEE-AHH-HA-HA*SQUEAK*EEK-SWEET JESUS-S-SHHH-EEE-HE-HE-PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP!” I scream in involuntary glee.
“Not your worst spot you say?” Arman teases.
His technique reminds me of a doctor doing an abdominal examination where they take to palpation to feel for abnormalities. My hips swing about in contrast to his hands. If his fingers massage my left I juke to the right all in a pointless effort of trying to outmaneuver my tormentor, “OH-HO-HO-HA-HA-HA-HA-ARMAN PLEEE-HE-HE-HE-ASE! *GASP* NO MOREEE-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-HA-UUUGH! DON’T PLEASE!” I wail.
He works harder manipulating and restructuring the curves of my natural body, kneading my stomach as though it was dough. Hey, hey, not enough to make bread, only a muffin or two, just so we’re clear.
A tingling feeling is resurrected from the pit of my stomach when one of his fingers traces around my belly button. Don’t go in. Don’t you dare go in there.
“What an adorable belly button.” He remarks. His finger continues to circle its perimeter teasing my senses and putting me on edge.
“Oh no! Now, now Arman, you, you can leave that there. You don’t need to…”
“How could you ask me to neglect such a fine little navel? It’s practically whispering, Arman, Arman tickle ME!” He takes to a high pitched voice.
“No sir it’s not.” I shake my head, “you, you must be hearing things!” I mumble.
“I’m sorry Diane could you speak up?” He extends an ear in my direction.
“I SAID YO-OOOH-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA-HA!” The jerk tricked me, “OOOO-WHYEE-HE-HE-HE*GASP*HA-HA-HA-HA-NOT THERE! NOOO HOO-STOP THAT!”
My body reflexively twists about the bed to the confines of my restraints. I can feel my face light up in various contortions as his finger tests the depth of my navel drilling it down and back out to no end. Dam’n Arman have you struck oil YET?
His finger eventually finds its way out of there, but not before he manages to slime it in saliva and preform a wet willy on my belly button, rather gross but, effective, “OKAY, OKAAY-YA-YA-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-HA-HA-AHH-PEE-ANUT BUTTER!” There, I said it.
Arman lifts his arms in triumph, “Ah ha, YES!”
Defeated I’m subjected to watching him do a short victory dance. At the very least he’s honored the safe word and my body’s given some time to recover. It is then I’m reminded of the ten percent deduction and my heart sinks ever so slightly, “Okaaay, so ya got me.” I force a smile and do my best to conceal my personal disappointment.
“Well you know what that means!”
He’s starting up again. I would totally smack him if I wasn’t tied to this bed, “Yes.” I say in a low tone.
He must sense the tension in my voice because he quickly throws up his hands, “Now, now, don’t fret,” He flashes a two second smirk, “you’ve only lost twenty five dollars. There’s still two hundred and twenty five dollars left in play!” He rubs imaginary money with his hand.
“But it’s twenty five DOLLARS!” I fuss.
“Look, the rules are simple, don’t. Say. Those. Words.”
With that statement said and my break had, Arman’s fingers find their way down to my legs. It’s only then that I realize the tights were a mistake. Unbeknownst to poor ol’ me, they only amplify the ticklishness of my already sensitive skin!
His fingers are light to the touch, ever only skimming my inner thighs. It’s like he’s not even trying, although one wouldn’t guess so, especially with my, “HA-HA-HA-HA-OOO-HOO-HOO-HE-HE-HE-AYEE-YEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-S-S-STOP IT! P-P-LEEEASE-SE-HE-HE-HE-HE! OH MY! OH MY!” laughter.
I can feel his fingernails through the fabric scribbling and my whole body wobbles vivaciously. He creeps his hands dangerously close to my crotch, an area that hasn’t had a man’s touch in quite some time. I can feel my vagina tense up. It pumps in rhythm almost like it’s got its own separate heartbeat, swelling. The sensual sensations completely contrast Arman’s intentions, “OOH-HOO-AHH-HA-HA-HA! MMM… HMM-HMM-AH-HA-HA-HA! OOH THAT TICKLES!” I giggle. I may be laughing, but believe me, my vagina has a hidden agenda, and a mind of its own.
“Of course it TICKLES silly! Won’t be doing it if it didn’t!” He smiles right before he presses his fingers deep onto my fleshy thighs, throwing me into hysterics and my hips into Shakira mode.
His fingers stretch far back near the creases of my butt cheeks massaging every ounce of flesh, exploring all of me and touching the most sacred parts of my body with no reserve.
“WHA? HA-HA-HA-HA! OH YOU! OH Y-YOOO-HOOO-HOO MY GOD! OH MY GODA-DA-HA-HA-HA! *GASP* OH PLEASE ARMAAAN!” My mouth opens wide allowing a volley of laughter to flow out of me. At the same time, down south something else is flowing, something of a more moist variety.
I can’t fight this feeling. I don’t want to fight this feeling. My vagina feels like it’s on steroids. It’s so swollen I can feel it clinging to my panties, sucking on them. My God! Will Arman be able to see it through my tights? My only hope is that he’ll be too focused on tickling me to notice.
“What have we here?” Arman’s face lights up like the 4th of July.
Damn.
“Camel toe?” He grins.
Shit.
“It looks like SOMEONE is enjoying this a little TOO much!” He cracks his fingers.
I don’t even know how to feel. Should I be ashamed? No. He finds it amusing doesn’t he?
Just then Arman puts my mind at ease, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of Diane. It’s quite common for people to get aroused inadvertently.”
He smiles and pats my tummy.
“Perfectly, natural?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
“Perfectly. Tickling, although it SEEMS childish is still a form of arousal. It stimulates your senses. Tell me I’m wrong.” He continues.
He’s not. He’d been doing it successfully all evening and I nod in compliance. Then something happens that I do not expect. Arman switches off the camera.
“You know, I… I can…” Suddenly he’s the one stuttering; suddenly he’s the one unsure of himself.
In an instant I know.
“If you want… I can…” He can’t bring himself to lock eyes with me so his gaze wanders aimlessly about the room.
I lick my lips and nod in approval, “Yes.”
I feel his masculine hands grip my hips before he peels down more of my tights, exposing the white cotton panties which encase my delicate vagina, “If I’d known this was going to happen, I would have worn my sexy ones.” I confess.
“Believe me when I say, YOU don’t need fancy panties to be sexy.” His fingers begin to trace the outline embossed on the front of my panties.
The friction his fingers create is electric making me tense up even more. I welcome the touch arching my back and making my clitoris his threshold. I can feel a slight secretion leaving my body. I’m afraid he’ll shy away, but he doesn’t.
“Here it comes.” He says. His fingers press on a small damp blotch that’s gathered on my panties.
His hands are ever so gentle as they run up and down my vagina teasingly.
“Mmm… Mmm…” I moan. My heart rate accelerates with each passing second and my body readies for what’s to come.
My life up until now has been me, giving and giving with no return. For the first time in a long time, someone is giving to ME. It feels divine. In this moment I feel like a queen.
“OOOH! ARMAN… FASTER!” I plead.
He picks up the pace vigorously rubbing two fingers along my clitoris. A tingling sensation runs down my thighs and up my spine. Every microscopic hair on my body is at attention. I clench my fists, bite my lip and close my eyes. His pace quickens even more causing my legs to tremble, and then it happens. Had I not been lying down, I would have collapsed because my head is spinning. I feel as light as a feather too. The world around me, my problems, my fears and doubts, for at least this moment have subsided and nothing else matters.
I no longer feel Arman’s presence. Perhaps knowing his work had been completed he’s left me to finish on my own. It doesn’t matter. For the first time in a long time, I feel satisfied. Just as satisfying is the feeling that comes when he undoes the restraints on my arms. My wrists are red from the constant tugging and struggles and my arms feel heavy as if I’d been exercising them. They barely have enough strength in them to push me into a seated position. My hair is disheveled, tossed this way and that as if I’d been struck by lightning. I watch as Arman rips off the ankle straps. My feet are blushing red.
“There are some wipes in the bathroom, if you’d like to clean yourself up.” He says in a low voice.
I peek down and see the huge wet stain on my panties. My fluids had run so wild they’d even managed to find their way onto his sheets,
“Sorry.” Was all I could say.
Arman reassured me that it was alright and stated, “You won’t be the last woman on this bed to wet the sheets.”
My legs are rubbery the second I put my weight on them. Somehow, I make it to the bathroom. I grab a wipe and place it directly onto my vagina. It’s cold to the touch. After cleaning myself up I exit the bathroom. Armin is already waiting for me, a clipboard in one hand, and a white envelope in the other. He ushers me to sit back down on the bed.
“So Diane, it was a big day for you hu?” He smiles.
“Oh, boy yes!” I say playfully.
“Did you think you were THAT ticklish?”
“Oh, no! I can’t even remember the last time I laughed this hard.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.
“What did it feel like, being restrained and knowing you couldn’t escape?”
“Absolutely terrifying.” I shake my head.
“Given the chance, would you do it again?”
I don’t answer immediately. It’s a question I have to think about, “I’ll have to get back to you on that Arman.”
He hands me the white envelope, walks me to the door and says goodbye. I don’t look back. By now, night has fallen on the city and I race home hoping to catch a few minutes of Tyler and Clark still awake.
I walk in and find Jane has already tucked them in. She’s zoned out on the television watching some special about pregnant teens in America.
“Jane? Jane?” I have to snap my fingers before she comes back to life.
“Oh, Diane!! Hi. Sorry I was spaced out for a minute there.”
“More than a minute.” I chuckle. It hurts to laugh.
“Oh, so how was your interview? Was it a success? Did you kill?” She throws these questions like daggers.
“Oh I killed alright.”
“So did you get the job?” She crosses her arms.
“Well, they REALLY liked me.”
“Oh well that’s fantastic!” Jane is already headed for the door, “You know how I could tell you done well?” She puts on her coat.
“How?” I ask and place a hand on my hip.
“There’s a gleam in your eyes. One I ain’t seen in a long time.” She gives me a hug and walks out the door.
I turn off the TV and creep quietly into Tyler and Clark’s room. They’re sound asleep. From my purse I pull out the white envelope Arman had handed me earlier and I tear it open to check the contents. There in a stack of twelve 20’s and a single 10, two hundred and fifty dollars. I count it again because it shouldn’t be two hundred and fifty dollars. Good God it is!! I know I’m bad at math, but there’s no mistaking it, Arman gave me a hundred percent of my earnings.
It’s my assumption that Arman forgot to take twenty five dollars from my pay until something else slips out of the envelope. It falls to the floor. I kneel down to pick up a small piece of paper with the words, “Hope again.” written in black sharpie.
“One Woman’s Worth”
What do I do? That is the question that’s been plaguing my mind for the past week and a half. With bills piled high and two hungry boys named Tyler and Clark I’m finding it hard to make ends meet. The icing on the cake? I bare this weight a single mother, alone.It’s the end of another long hostess shift in a small little country type diner. The racket of clattering plates and loud talking is drowned out as the door closes behind me and I exit. I take a brisk stride towards my car that’s got about as many dings in it as it does miles and tires so thin I can feel even the slightest bump on the road. I yank the door open and the smell of cheap greasy fries scent the dingy worn interior. After three chokes of the engine my shit box sputters to life and I make my way down to the elementary where my kids are already out and waiting for me among the final few students left to be picked up. I can always count on them to brighten my day. They have no sense of our situation and thus Tyler and Clark haven’t a worry in the world. I don’t blame them. It’s not their job to worry, it’s mine.
The evening goes about as usual in our shabby home. There’s nothing elaborate about it. We eat an inexpensive meal, and then disburse. The television always draws my kid’s attention after dinner and I use this time to search for another job on the internet. The market for work is vast, but I have little to no experience with a majority of job details and as such am limited in my options. Mostly restaurant jobs call my name. Having been working as a hostess for much of my life, it’s something I can do well, and I scan the classifies hoping to find an opening. I sift my weary eyes up and down the blinding white screen disregarding anything that requires college credits. It isn’t until the third page that something catches my eyes in a big way. In a small 4x4 square is an advertisement that reads “Wanted: Mature females for foot fetish shoots”. The text almost seems to jump off the screen at me and the money symbols that border the ad are very appealing. If I know one thing it’s that I am a mature woman no if, ands or maybes. I’d also heard of foot fetishes. To me people with that kind of mindset come off as weird, but for some odd reason they seem to be willing to pay money to watch women display their feet. With really nothing left to lose I dial up the number on the ad.
The phone only rings twice before a deep rich voice answers on the other end, “Hello?”
For some reason I ice up. The words I’m searching for will just not come to my mouth. It’s as if I’m choking.
He speaks again, only louder this time, “HELLO?”
This time through a crackled voice, I respond, “H-Hi, I’m calling in regards t-to the fetish shoot?”
The man breaths deep, “Oh, well why didn’t you say so? We are currently accepting applicants. If you’re interested, I encourage you to stop on by.”
“Oh-oh y-yes sir, I am. I could really use the payday. Would you mind explaining a little more about what you do?” I ask.
“Oh I wouldn’t worry about the fine print, unless you know, you get the job.” He says.
For some reason I don’t rebuttal him. His statement makes sense; I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. After gathering a pen and pad I jot down the address to where I can meet him. In a reassuring tone he lets me know there’s no funny business and that his outfit is strictly professional like that. No sooner do we hang up, that my own fears and doubts begin to loom over me. Although it’s only a fetish shoot the thought crosses my mind, “Am I attractive enough?” I turn to my reflection. My face is riddled with tiny wrinkles around my eyes. My once pouty lips have since become thin and cracked. As I stand I take notice of my bulging midsection and breathe deep in an effort to conceal it, “How long can I keep this posture?” I ask myself. I relax my body and my tummy inflates back to where it’s comfortable.
I sigh at my situation and neatly compile my bills into one small stack. The computer screen fades to black as I shut it down and I turn away from my troubles, at least for the moment. With a heavy heart I shuffle to my children’s room to force them into bed. Tomorrow there will be an unusual twist in my schedule. This night my usual worries don’t keep me awake. It’s the thought of what is to come should I pursue this. My cluelessness keeps me wondering just what’s in store for me once this all goes down. At long last I lose the battle between sleep and consciousness. It feels like the blink of an eye that night turns to morning and the moon becomes the sun creeping through my curtains. I hate those nights. It’s almost as if though I didn’t get a chance to enjoy my sleep. I shuffle out of bed and flatten out the wrinkles of my faded night gown. It’s got a tiny hole right under my left breast, but despite its flaws I enjoy how comfortable it feels draped over my body.
As usual my children have no initiative. I flip the light to their room on and they quickly cower under their sheets for protection, “Wake up guys! Time for school!!” I shout. I forcefully whip the sheets off them and watch as their faces light up at my efforts. Tyler and Clark crawl out of bed in a zombie like fashion and scoot their way to the bathroom.
With the kids up I quickly slip into my restaurant uniform which is a basic set of black pants and a crisp white polo shirt. I’ve never understood why the restaurant business likes white. It’s impossible to keep clean and by the end of the day there is practically a meal on my shirt from all the mess customers make.
With what little time there is left I have to decide between applying make-up and feeding my boys a complete balanced breakfast. I choose the latter and prepare breakfast sandwiches of ham egg and cheese. In a jiffy my hungry boys eat their sandwiches and what took me ten minutes to make is gone in less than three.
My morning takes on its usual routine. Traffic is piled up at the boy’s school and the needle on my gas meter is so low it’s threatening to fall off as my shit box runs on fumes.
Sure enough my day is littered with loud banter and occasional rude customers. Not unlike a normal day at the diner. One thing however continues to plague my mind, something that’s keeping me from being a hundred percent focused on my job. I am really going to go through with this?
Evening comes no sooner or later than usual and I’ve placed my boys in the security of my younger sister Jane. She questions where I am headed so late in the day and I tell her I’m off for a job interview. Not a lie. Technically I am. We leave it at that and before long I am outside a studio apartment complex, filled with doubts.
At the very least I’d managed to sort out my ensemble. From ankle to mid-waist my body is tightly secured in solid black compression leggings. They undoubtedly help tighten my thighs and keep the jiggling to a minimum. Draped over the top of my body, a slightly snug red blouse with butterfly silhouettes.
I knock on the door. I hear an echo as if the room behind it is empty. It doesn’t take long for a young man to come to the door and flash me a heartwarming smile, “Good evening, Miss?”
“D-Diane.” I mumbled.
“You sure about that?” His eyebrow rises.
I lower my head and stare down at my feet, “Eh, Yes.” I nod.
“Well come in.” He ushers me into a medium sized complex.
The air is crisp and I feel a slight chill on my skin as I follow him into the room. The walls are a sky blue shade and aside from a generic picture frame they are bare. To the left is a black leather couch big enough for three. He points to it and I plop myself down onto it. The material is cool to the touch and enviably comfortable. After the day I’ve had, I could fall asleep.
“My name is Arman. Let’s talk.” He sits down. His chiseled physic is noticeable through the plain white t-shirt he wears and when his blue eyes catch mine it’s piercing.
“Arman, nice to meet you.” I do my best to keep my posture as flattering as possible.
“I’m glad you didn’t chicken out. How was your commute?”
“Oh, I REALLY need this, and my drive over here was, well interesting.”
“Interesting? How?”
“Well I spent most of it debating whether I should turn the car back around and go home.” I threw my hands up like a weight scale.
“Ah, I see. Well you have NOTHING to worry about Diane. Like I explained over the phone, this is a strictly professional business. Anything you aren’t comfortable with we won’t force you to do.” He strokes his stubble.
My heart is throbbing so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t heard it, “Well this is a fetish shoot right? I mean what exactly would you have me doing?”
He flashes a smile, “Well, It’s not so much what you’d be doing, rather what would be being done to you.”
I feel a lump in my throat, “A-and w-what’s that?”
“Tickling.”
My head cocks back, “I beg your pardon?”
“You’d be getting tickled!”
“What?” I almost cackle at the thought.
“Aren’t you ticklish? Everybody is.”
I shrug my shoulders, “Not sure. I mean tickling? That’s kid stuff.” The idea sounds ridiculous and I feel as though I’ve just wasted time and gas.
“Yeah, you would think. Allow me to enlighten you.” He takes my hand and leads me to a small room filled with computers, laptops and piles of cables and wire.
He opens the internet to a website called the Tickling Media Forum, over a hundred thousand followers. Hundreds of pictures and video clips flood the threads and now I see that the adolescent pastime is in fact bigger than I ever imagined. My jaw drops in awe.
He chuckles, “Still think it’s kid stuff?”
“Oh boy.” That’s all I could say.
“Not to rush this, but have you changed your mind?”
“Weeell, now I don’t know if I can handle this.” I bite my lip, “Those video clips are frightening.”
“Oh, you have nothing to worry about. We always take it easy on first timers, and don’t you NEED the money?” His eyes lock with mine.
“Well that is true. How much are we talking about here?” I place my hands on my hips.
“I’ll have to test you first, but if you pass the test, you’ll be looking at two hundred and fifty dollars upfront.”
I don’t answer immediately. Two hundred and fifty dollars? Is that what I’m worth? Two hundred and fifty dollars is an electric bill and a water bill collectively.
“Well?” He asks.
`I think of Tyler and Clark, my sons. They’re what I live for. It’s because I love them that I’m here. I swear ourselves a better life, no matter what.
“I’ll do it.”
We’re back at the sofa. Arman has equipped himself with a pen and pad, “Well just like any job, I like to conduct brief interviews with my candidates before we actually get started.”
“I see nothing wrong with that.” I breathe ever so softly.
“What is your shoe size Diane?” He points his pen toward my shabby sneakers.
“Size six.” I move my foot in a circular motion.
“And, how tall are you?”
“Oh, I’m not sure, about 5’7, on a good day he-he.”
“Customarily we would request an I.D to verify that you’re of legal age, but…”
“…I know, I know. I’m old.”
“No, no. You’re mature. And might I say, very pretty.”
“Why thank you.” I force a smile. Why does he have to lie right to my face? Doesn’t he see what I see in the mirror?
“Do you have any hobbies?”
I ponder this one.
“Well?” He pushes.
“Legos.”
“Hu?” His smile fades.
“My kids love to play with Legos and I enjoy helping them build things out of them.” I cannot believe I just said that.
“Very well. Have you ever been tickled?” His smile returns.
I shake my head, “No. Not since I was a little girl anyways.”
“And do you remember what that was like? I mean who would tickle you?”
My eyes roll back as if they could reach the cervix of my mind that holds old memories, “My cousins. Always my cousins.”
"Why would they?”
“I think they just enjoyed watching me suffer.” I honestly didn’t know their motive, but if they could see me now I’m sure they’d be wiggling their fingers mischievously.
“Have you ever been restrained before?”
“No.”
“How do you think you’ll handle being restrained and tickled?”
“Not well. Not well at all.”
“And why not?”
I’m slightly annoyed by this question. He of all people should know the answer, but I appease him anyway, “Well, when you’re getting tickled, your first reaction is to make them stop. When you can’t do that…”
“I know right? Sounds sadistic?”
I feel a tingling up my spine as the word “sadistic” escapes his lips, “Yes, defiantly.”
He puts the pen and pad on the floor, “Alright, let’s run a preliminary. Let’s see those feet.” He motions me to turn towards him.
I lift my legs and place my feet on his lap. I reach out to untie my sneakers, but he shoos my hand away, “I’ll handle that.” He smiles.
I watch as first my laces are undone. Then the shoe tongues are loosened. Finally he slips them off my feet leaving only a thin pair of pink socks covering my soles.
He drops my shoes to the ground, “Aw, such pretty pink socks.” He smiles.
I try my best not to blush, “Yeah?”
He answers me. Not with words, but with a single finger stroke up my left arch. My foot reflexively jerks back, “Ooo we’re starting?”
He doesn’t reply. Instead he continues to stroke my feet.
I feel a small surge of irritating sensations escalate from my soles, “ha-ooo that’s starting to t-tickle!” I gasp. My foot again subconsciously twitches away from his fingers.
“Hold still.” He says in a slightly stern voice.
From the sound in his voice he’s turned on the professionalism and I do my best to comply, “I-I’m sorry, it’s only…”
“Natural?” he looks up and flashes me a smile.
I bite my lip and nod.
With a firm grip he clamps down on my ankles. His strong hand keeps me still while his other scribbles up and down my arches, “Yi-k-k-a-he-he-he!” I feel my cheeks turning rose red and I fan my face in an effort to conceal it.
“Perfectly natural Diane. Just what I like.” He slips off my socks. My creamy white soles are now more vulnerable than ever, “Ah your feet. So delicate, so ripe!” His eyes feast almost as if though he was staring at the most mouthwatering meal he’d ever seen.
I scrunch my toes in anticipation of his fingertips, “J-just do it alr-r-ready.” I demand.
“My, my aren’t we testy.” He eases his index finger onto the heel of my foot.
The touch alone makes me jump off my butt, “Aye!” I squeak.
“Careful what you wish for, DIANE!” He continues his light ascend on my left arch which feels like tiny insects crawling,
I do my best to wriggle free, but his grip is too strong, “Eh-yee-tee-he-he-ooo-that’s goooooda-ha-ooo-whee-he-he!” I quickly clasp my smile with both hands slightly surprised at my own reactions.
Arman pays me no mind as he switches over to my right foot, “can’t neglect this one!”
I shake my head, “Oh y-y-yes you can!” I stammer hoping he’ll agree.
“Ah, but it wouldn’t be fair. I wouldn’t want your right foot to feel left out!” He teases.
I’m about to rebuttal when an unbearable prickle captivates my senses, “HA-WHOOO-COO-HEE-SHEEE-HE-HE-PSHH-OH BOY!” It’s all I can do not to swear at Arman.
He rubs his thumbnail in a vigorous up and down motion along the side of my foot, “Ah! Is it possible that your right is even more ticklish than your left?” He quips.
“Ah-Ka-HA-H-H-HOW’S TH-THAT-POSSIBLE?!”
“It’s been known to happen.” He chirps. In an instant Arman releases my feet and plops his bottom onto my lap, “Well your feet definitely pass the test, but how about your upper body?”
I self-consciously suck in my tummy, “Oh dear, now about-t that-t-t!” I’m not given a chance to speak my piece before Arman’s fingers thrust into my ribs, “-tee-he-he-eh-ooo-HA!” The eccentric sensations make it impossible to focus on sucking in my stomach.
He quickly backs off, “Well that answers that!” He gets up and makes off towards a room. When he returns there’s a small digital camera in his possession, “Say cheese!”
I’m a fish out of water. I don’t belong here and with this mindset I have to force a smile. I stretch my neck out to avoid a double chin and prop my chest out in the fight against gravity to show off my breast. I smile wide to accentuate my most compelling feature, a set of dimples perfectly aligned on each cheek.
After a couple of pictures of me Arman focuses the lens directly on my feet and he snaps away at various angles. I do my best to pose my feet, “Is this…sexy?” I ask while stretching my toes.
“Perfect.” He stands to his feet again, “Now if you’ll follow me.”
He leads me to a small room with a king sized bed at center stage. Two bright lights illuminate the satin; crème colored sheets and at each bedpost are black Velcro straps I can only assume are to secure my limbs. Mounted on a tripod is a standard digital video recorder which will undoubtedly be capturing the events to follow in the next half hour. Ever so subtly I sit on the bed.
“Right there is fine.” He asks me to stay put, “Now allow me to lay down the law, as it were.”
“Okay.” I purse my lips.
“Once again you understand you will be restrained?”
“Uh-hu.”
“Very good. During the shoot if at any time you feel as though you cannot continue we will issue a safe word for you to use.”
“S-safe word?”
“Yes. Saying this word will put a halt to the action for a brief period, but will also cost you ten percent of your total earnings for every time you say it.” He explains calmly.
“Oooh.” I shriek at the thought.
“What will your safe word be? It should be the first word that comes to mind.” He scratches his beard.
“Peanut butter.” I maybe should have thought about it more.
“Ha, Peanut Butter?”
“You did say the first thing that comes to mind, and my kids love that stuff. They can’t get enough. They will eat it with a spoon when we’re out of bread!” I banter.
“Well it’ll do, and you’ll be able to buy SEVERAL jars of peanut butter after this is over.” He chuckles.
We exchange glances. There’s an awkward silence before he eventually ushers me to lie down. I nervously press my back to the mattress. It’s undeniably more comfortable than the one I own and under different circumstances I’d be inclined to fall asleep. Arman takes to tying my ankles down first. I allow him full control of my legs as he positions them just where he needs them, “RRRRIIPPP!” The straps are opened and my ankles are slid into place. I can’t stand to watch so I focus my attention on a small poster of The Beatles which hangs by thumbtacks on the wall to my right. At the very least, it’s nice to know he has good taste in music.
He breaks my thoughts, “Not to tight?” He taps my ankles.
I have to refocus myself, giving each restraint a slight tug, “Nope, they’re good.”
Arman works his way to my arms which I extend above my head and to the corners of the bed. He gently wraps the straps around my wrist careful not to scratch my skin with the rough material. Again he asks if they’re on too tight, which they are not. Up to this point he’s been so dainty with me; a trait I know will disappear once the camera starts rolling.
My vulnerability is never more surfaced as it is now. The realization that I cannot escape my bounds without his assistance has me nervous as Hell. It’s only normal to question his trustworthiness after I’m completely at his mercy. Perhaps I should have brought a friend? Yeah that would have been smart in case this guy turns out to be nuts! It’s not easy, but I manage to reassure myself I didn’t make a mistake .
In my mental quarrel I failed to notice he’d already situated his camera at my feet, “Ready?” He raises his eyebrows.
I prop my head up to lock eyes with him, “Of course NOT!” I say though pursed lips.
He chuckles and slaps his knee, “Well I am!” He gestures.
I roll my eyes, “Of course YOU are! You’re not on the receiving end!” I shoot back.
“Ha, alright let’s get started. Remember you can say, “stop” or “no” pretty much anything you want, but if you say, “peanut butter” that’s the magic word that makes everything stop. Understood?”
I nod, “Got it.”
“Oh and one more thing, PLEASE try your best NOT to fight the restraints. You’ll only be hurting yourself. I guarantee you’re not going to break them so don’t even try. Just give in to the tickling.” He shoots me a serious glance.
I raise a brow, “Oh yes sir!” I would have saluted had my arms been free.
“Lastly, and I tell all my girls this, YOU,” he points at me, “you are in control. You may be restrained, but you control this.” He waves his hands around the room.
I'm not sure what he means by that, given my situation I feel more at his mercy than ever. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a, “beep” an indication that the camera is recording. All that’s left for me to do is endure. Since no mention was made as to how long the shoot would be I can only assume it’s over at his discretion.
It starts with a light scribble on my left sole, “Told you I’d start easy he-he-he.”
The sensations are subtle evoking my foot to twitch left to right, “OOO-HEY-HE-HE-HE-WAIT-I-I-AH-HA-HA!” I’m not ready, but my sporadic giggles keep me from completing my sentence.
“What? You’re not ready?” He mocks. His fingers take a stronger approach delving deeper into my plush sole.
The bastard knew, “HA-WHOOO-HE-GEE-GEE-OH BOY-OOH BOY-WHEE-HE-HE-HE-YEE-MY GOD!” I sputter. That’s all I can do.
From pinky to index finger he strikes my arch in rapid succession making sure to cover every inch of foot, “Where ya gonna go? Where ya gonna go?” he taunts my ever moving foot.
He’s right. I can twitch my foot this way and that, but my movement is so limited it does nothing to hinder his hands, “OH-JA-HA-HA-HA-NEE-EE-HE-HE-HE OH GOD!” I scream.
His fingernails scrape the ball of my foot with such exuberance the sensations make my entire leg wobble. Arman’s advice not to fight the restraints must be far off into the distance or perhaps my leg didn’t get the memo because it’s furiously fighting to get free, “I’m sorry does that tickle?” he taunts.
Perhaps it’s a good thing I’m tied up, because after that comment…I could strangle him, “HA-HA-HA-GEEE-GEEE-UUUUGGGHH! OH-OH-WHOOO-HOO-OOO-ST-ST-STOP!” I’m absolutely spastic.
I feel Arman’s fingers withdraw. He listened? The tingling sensation slowly subsides and I’m left to catch my breath, “Breathe deep Diane. We’re just getting started.”
I perk my head up, “J-J-Just getting STARTED?!” I hate him right now. I really do. So much for taking it easy on the new girl, “Arman please…”
“Begging already?”
I’d answer, but decide my time might be better spent collecting my breath. And I’m right. The next feeling on my feet is that of a hundred rubber bristles in a side swiping motion which sends goose bumps up my skin, “W-WH-HAAAT’S THAT?! TA-HA-HA-HA-OOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-KA-KAA-HA-HA-HA!”
“It’s a hairbrush silly! Don’t you know what a hairbrush feels like?” He jokes.
My legs thrash violently against their restraints, “AHHH-HA-HA-HA-H-H-HAIR BRUSHEEEESSS-SE-ARE FOR HAIR!”
I’ve never thought of a comb as a tickle torture device and even now that it’s being raked against my soles I’m still having trouble comprehending the whole idea. Then again, how much comprehension can be accomplished when my mind is flooded with the insatiable desire to laugh? Through squinted eyes I manage to gaze on Arman for just two seconds. His complete attention is on the task at hand, my feet. He strikes my arches with such vivacity it’s as if he is playing Yo-Yo Ma’s Cello Suite #1 to a grand audience. And perhaps he is. Perhaps this is his concerto, and my feet are little instruments. After all he is getting some sounds out of me, he’s making me laugh and that’s melody in and of itself.
The prickling sensation comes to a stop as Arman stands and repositions the camera directly at my face. I can only imagine the facial expressions he’s going to capture on film, “Oh boy that’s a rush!” I exclaim through deep breaths.
We locks eyes and he smiles, “It is, and I must say you’re handling it well for a first timer.” He stokes a lock of my curly brown hair away from my face.
It isn’t till he touches my hair that I remember the thin streaks of gray that have been slowly creeping up on me. I completely neglected coloring them earlier in the week and now I regret not having done so. It seems as though Arman too has noticed them because he chuckles and says, “Ooo hot mama alert!” The hairs on my neck stand up as his fingertips graze my scalp and he strokes my hair again, a sensation I find welcoming. He only stokes my hair for a second more, “Shall we continue?” It’s not a question. His actions suggest it isn’t because he’s back at my feet looking to administer more torment.
I clench my fists into balls and grit my teeth tight bracing my body for impact, but let’s face it, no amount of preparedness can predict what’s coming. It’s my other foot; my right foot; the even more ticklish one. It starts as similarly as it did for my left foot. I feel his fingers lightly graze my skin, hardly making contact with my skin, but still enough to make me tic, “OOOH-NOT THE R-RIGHT!” I plead. My words fall on deaf ears. Or do they? Because it seems the moment I ask him not to, he proceeds with more enthusiasm.
His fingers are now in full contact of my sole. Quick strokes streak up and down my arch igniting my nerve endings to an unspeakable fathom. I still can’t comprehend how one foot could be more responsive than the other, but it’s not for me to understand, at least not at this particular time. Just accept it and laugh Diane, “HA-HA-HAAA-AYE-EEE-HE-HE-HE-S-STOP IT S-T-T-STOP EET-TEE-HE-HE-HE!” I shriek. Amidst my head whipping up and down I notice Arman completely zoned out on his work, “HEYY-EE-HE-HE-HE! THAT TICKLES!”
My comment makes him glance up, “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.” He smiles wide.
I’m reminded of the Joker from Batman and the evil grin he always wears, “YASSS! OH SHIT OH SHIT-T-TEE-HE-HE-HE-WHOOO-HA-HA-HA *GASP*!” I cursed? Me?
“Language Diane! What would your kids say?” He teases.
I lower my lip in shame, “Sorry…” I whisper.
The conversation is kept short as he lowers his head again and continues apply his fingers onto the crease where my toes connect. It’s a tender area, and I jump reflexively as his nails excavate the microscopic bits of lint that have collected there over the course of the day. I scrunch my foot down hoping somehow that will block his assault. It doesn’t. BIG surprise. In fact it only encourages him to peel my toes back till the skin on my foot is as tight as possible, “Trying to give me a hard time eh? For that you get the…”
Hairbrush. The damn thing feels like his fingers multiplied times ten, “S-S-SOOOHH SORRYEEE-YEE-HE-HE-*GASP*HA-HA-HA-HA OH GAWD OH MYYY AYE AYEEE-HEE-HEE-HEE TOO MUCH!” My arms instinctively flail about to the limits of my restraints hopelessly longing to break loose, “P-PLEASE STOOOP PUHLEEEE-HE-HE-HEEEZE! OH GAWD! OH GAWDA-HA-HA-HA-NO! STOP IT *GASP* STOP IT I SAYEE-HE-HE-HE-OOOH-HA-HA-HA!”
“Sounds like I’ve hit the jackpot!” Arman has to yell over my laughter to be audible.
His relentless effort on my foot is becoming overbearing. I can’t remember the last time I laughed THIS hard and there’s a slight discomfort in my belly as a result. It’s a pain I vaguely recall from my running days. Okay so there were only like three of them, but still it felt like that. I consider the safe word, Peanut Butter. Two words really, but the only ones that can put a pause to this torture. Then again, is it worth ten percent?
Almost as if he could read my thoughts Arman spoke up, “Hmm… sounds like somebody could use some... P-P…Pe-Pe…” The word trickled from the tip of his tongue making the idea float around that much more in my head.
I shook my head violently, “NO! NEVER!” I resisted the urge.
To my surprise Arman abandons the brush, “Ah, someone, wants their FULL paycheck today!” He almost sounds impressed as he gets up from the foot of the bed.
I’m breathing hard; too hard to make a witty comeback. I take this opportunity to lie completely still. Aside from my eyes which now follow his every move, my body’s limp. My thoughts go out to my kids. Had they finished their homework? Did they eat the dinner I left them? Were they drilling Jane on my whereabouts? I can only hope the television will work its magic and keep them entertained, keep them from calling.
Arman sits at my right and twists his waist to face me, “Don’t worry, you’re doing fantastic.” He must have noticed the look of concern on my face, “Now tell me Diane, are your armpits ticklish?” He smiles.
I force a smirk, (something I won’t have to do in a few seconds) and nod, “Mmm-hmm.”
He starts with light spiderlike strokes that descend from my elbows down the curvy fullness of my soft arms. Goose bumps stand at attention as he closes in on my underarms. I shut my eyes and tighten my jaw in a false pretense that I can keep composed. He thrusts my tender hollows without warning, “WH-WAITEEE-TEE-HE-HE-HE-OOOH-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA-HA*GASP*OH PU-PU-LEEEASE SS-SS OOH-HA-HA-HA MY GAWD!” What did I tell you? I totally caved.
His fingers dig around as if he’s searching for something. What could he be looking for? The answer comes in the form of a titillating rush of sensations as he touches the most sunken portion of my underarms.
The feeling sends my body into spastic left and right thrashes, “HA-HA-HA-HA-AHHH-HA-HA-NOOO P-PLEE-HE-HE-HE YIKES!” I babble.
He uses all his fingers to collectively focus on one spot and it is torture. He’s hunched over me smiling. He probably hears “Cha-Ching!” with every outburst of laughter he squeezes out of me, “Had enough?” He taunts.
“AHH-HA-HA-HA-WHEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-ARMAN PLEASE-SS-SS-EEH-EEH-HA-HA-HA-SWEET JESUS!”
“You know what you have to say!” His fingers recede back to lightly dancing on the surface of my armpits.
I mustn’t.
“Just say it.” His fingers move in circular motion tracing every imperfection of my delicate skin.
The bastard. He really is trying his damndest to make me say it, but I’ve got to refrain. I scrunch my face as his fingertips glide back up to my elbows then back down again. In a pointless effort I yank at my restraints. Nope. They’re on so secure there’s no way I’m slipping my hands free.
He continues a light grazing which is driving me INSANE because I have no hope of knowing when he’ll go mental on me again. Then he does something that I did not foresee… a sneak attack on my ribs!!
My reaction must have been priceless because his eyes grew wide as if he’d struck gold, “never underestimate the element of…”
“SURPISEEEE-EEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-TEE-WHOO-HOO-HOO-SWEET JESUS-NOOOO-HO-HO-HO!” I blurt.
“Now you’re learning.”
His thumbs massage my ribs with such intensity he’s got me bucking like a bronco. The last time I did this much up and down motion Tyler was conceived. I never imagined it being this bad, and now I can almost taste peanut butter on the tip of my tongue, “AAHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA-OOOH Y-YOU BAD BOYA-AH-HA-HA! RESPECT Y-Y-OUR ELDERS!” I know it’s a cliché, but it’s the best my flustered brain can come up with.
He stops and takes a triumphant pose over me, “It must bother you that a man half your age has you losing your mind. Remember, you handed me the rights to tickle you. It’s not like I put a gun to your head.”
I don’t know if it is his pompous behavior or the fact that I know he was right, but inside, I am fuming. It also bothers me that he’s reminded me just how old I am, and in this moment, I feel embarrassed to be here. I can’t believe I agreed to this.
He must have taken notice of my discomfort because he quickly jumps off his high horse, “I’m sorry. That was totally rude of me.” He sat beside me and softly stroked my hair back into place. “I should have left your age out of this.”
Although it still hurt, his apology felt sincere and I forgave him for his abrupt behavior. I made him promise never to do that again.
“Just a heads up, I’ll be sliding your top up a bit so I can get at your midsection, so don’t go bananas okay?” He waited for my approval.
“That’s fine.” I nodded. No that is not fine. My midsection? The last time I dared to stare at it in the mirror it looked like a bowl of gelatin desert. Well it’s too late now. He’s already lifting up my little blouse and the cold air strikes my skin letting me know I’m exposed. At the very least I have my compression pants all the way up to my… oh wait he’s peeling them down too.
“Much better. Thought you could hide such deliciousness from ME?” His hands caress my supple stomach.
“Oooh I- I guess not!” I play along. Who’s hiding? And what “deliciousness” is he talking about? All I see is an unsightly bulge. Perhaps he’s got x-ray vision and can see the cheeseburger and fries I had for lunch?
His fingers dance on my suppleness lightly gliding around getting familiar with the workspace. His touch makes my body flinch, “HE-HE-HE-EEE-HE-HE-EXPLORING?” I enquire.
My comment makes him chuckle, “Yes. So far I like the terrain. Very…” his index fingers poke about making me jolt, “soft.”
Now my heart’s racing faster almost as if my body can sense he’s on the verge, “Oooh yes, yes very softttee-HE-HE-HE OOOH-HE-HE-HE-HE!”
His fingers poke me up and down my sides as if he was pressing every button on an elevator, “Is this your WORST spot?”
“EH-HE-HE-HE-Nope!” I answer quickly, although my bodies constant twitching would suggest otherwise.
“Well then I guess you won’t mind…” Arman plunges his fingers into my belly, “if I see for myself?”
The sudden thrust of his fingers sends my hips upwards. Wait, why am I moving in HIS direction? Ugh, my body’s confused, “HA-HA-HA-HA-OOOH-HOO-HOO-GEE-GEE-AHH-HA-HA*SQUEAK*EEK-SWEET JESUS-S-SHHH-EEE-HE-HE-PLEASE STOP PLEASE STOP!” I scream in involuntary glee.
“Not your worst spot you say?” Arman teases.
His technique reminds me of a doctor doing an abdominal examination where they take to palpation to feel for abnormalities. My hips swing about in contrast to his hands. If his fingers massage my left I juke to the right all in a pointless effort of trying to outmaneuver my tormentor, “OH-HO-HO-HA-HA-HA-HA-ARMAN PLEEE-HE-HE-HE-ASE! *GASP* NO MOREEE-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-HA-UUUGH! DON’T PLEASE!” I wail.
He works harder manipulating and restructuring the curves of my natural body, kneading my stomach as though it was dough. Hey, hey, not enough to make bread, only a muffin or two, just so we’re clear.
A tingling feeling is resurrected from the pit of my stomach when one of his fingers traces around my belly button. Don’t go in. Don’t you dare go in there.
“What an adorable belly button.” He remarks. His finger continues to circle its perimeter teasing my senses and putting me on edge.
“Oh no! Now, now Arman, you, you can leave that there. You don’t need to…”
“How could you ask me to neglect such a fine little navel? It’s practically whispering, Arman, Arman tickle ME!” He takes to a high pitched voice.
“No sir it’s not.” I shake my head, “you, you must be hearing things!” I mumble.
“I’m sorry Diane could you speak up?” He extends an ear in my direction.
“I SAID YO-OOOH-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA-HA!” The jerk tricked me, “OOOO-WHYEE-HE-HE-HE*GASP*HA-HA-HA-HA-NOT THERE! NOOO HOO-STOP THAT!”
My body reflexively twists about the bed to the confines of my restraints. I can feel my face light up in various contortions as his finger tests the depth of my navel drilling it down and back out to no end. Dam’n Arman have you struck oil YET?
His finger eventually finds its way out of there, but not before he manages to slime it in saliva and preform a wet willy on my belly button, rather gross but, effective, “OKAY, OKAAY-YA-YA-HE-HE-HE-HA-HA-HA-HA-AHH-PEE-ANUT BUTTER!” There, I said it.
Arman lifts his arms in triumph, “Ah ha, YES!”
Defeated I’m subjected to watching him do a short victory dance. At the very least he’s honored the safe word and my body’s given some time to recover. It is then I’m reminded of the ten percent deduction and my heart sinks ever so slightly, “Okaaay, so ya got me.” I force a smile and do my best to conceal my personal disappointment.
“Well you know what that means!”
He’s starting up again. I would totally smack him if I wasn’t tied to this bed, “Yes.” I say in a low tone.
He must sense the tension in my voice because he quickly throws up his hands, “Now, now, don’t fret,” He flashes a two second smirk, “you’ve only lost twenty five dollars. There’s still two hundred and twenty five dollars left in play!” He rubs imaginary money with his hand.
“But it’s twenty five DOLLARS!” I fuss.
“Look, the rules are simple, don’t. Say. Those. Words.”
With that statement said and my break had, Arman’s fingers find their way down to my legs. It’s only then that I realize the tights were a mistake. Unbeknownst to poor ol’ me, they only amplify the ticklishness of my already sensitive skin!
His fingers are light to the touch, ever only skimming my inner thighs. It’s like he’s not even trying, although one wouldn’t guess so, especially with my, “HA-HA-HA-HA-OOO-HOO-HOO-HE-HE-HE-AYEE-YEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-S-S-STOP IT! P-P-LEEEASE-SE-HE-HE-HE-HE! OH MY! OH MY!” laughter.
I can feel his fingernails through the fabric scribbling and my whole body wobbles vivaciously. He creeps his hands dangerously close to my crotch, an area that hasn’t had a man’s touch in quite some time. I can feel my vagina tense up. It pumps in rhythm almost like it’s got its own separate heartbeat, swelling. The sensual sensations completely contrast Arman’s intentions, “OOH-HOO-AHH-HA-HA-HA! MMM… HMM-HMM-AH-HA-HA-HA! OOH THAT TICKLES!” I giggle. I may be laughing, but believe me, my vagina has a hidden agenda, and a mind of its own.
“Of course it TICKLES silly! Won’t be doing it if it didn’t!” He smiles right before he presses his fingers deep onto my fleshy thighs, throwing me into hysterics and my hips into Shakira mode.
His fingers stretch far back near the creases of my butt cheeks massaging every ounce of flesh, exploring all of me and touching the most sacred parts of my body with no reserve.
“WHA? HA-HA-HA-HA! OH YOU! OH Y-YOOO-HOOO-HOO MY GOD! OH MY GODA-DA-HA-HA-HA! *GASP* OH PLEASE ARMAAAN!” My mouth opens wide allowing a volley of laughter to flow out of me. At the same time, down south something else is flowing, something of a more moist variety.
I can’t fight this feeling. I don’t want to fight this feeling. My vagina feels like it’s on steroids. It’s so swollen I can feel it clinging to my panties, sucking on them. My God! Will Arman be able to see it through my tights? My only hope is that he’ll be too focused on tickling me to notice.
“What have we here?” Arman’s face lights up like the 4th of July.
Damn.
“Camel toe?” He grins.
Shit.
“It looks like SOMEONE is enjoying this a little TOO much!” He cracks his fingers.
I don’t even know how to feel. Should I be ashamed? No. He finds it amusing doesn’t he?
Just then Arman puts my mind at ease, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of Diane. It’s quite common for people to get aroused inadvertently.”
He smiles and pats my tummy.
“Perfectly, natural?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
“Perfectly. Tickling, although it SEEMS childish is still a form of arousal. It stimulates your senses. Tell me I’m wrong.” He continues.
He’s not. He’d been doing it successfully all evening and I nod in compliance. Then something happens that I do not expect. Arman switches off the camera.
“You know, I… I can…” Suddenly he’s the one stuttering; suddenly he’s the one unsure of himself.
In an instant I know.
“If you want… I can…” He can’t bring himself to lock eyes with me so his gaze wanders aimlessly about the room.
I lick my lips and nod in approval, “Yes.”
I feel his masculine hands grip my hips before he peels down more of my tights, exposing the white cotton panties which encase my delicate vagina, “If I’d known this was going to happen, I would have worn my sexy ones.” I confess.
“Believe me when I say, YOU don’t need fancy panties to be sexy.” His fingers begin to trace the outline embossed on the front of my panties.
The friction his fingers create is electric making me tense up even more. I welcome the touch arching my back and making my clitoris his threshold. I can feel a slight secretion leaving my body. I’m afraid he’ll shy away, but he doesn’t.
“Here it comes.” He says. His fingers press on a small damp blotch that’s gathered on my panties.
His hands are ever so gentle as they run up and down my vagina teasingly.
“Mmm… Mmm…” I moan. My heart rate accelerates with each passing second and my body readies for what’s to come.
My life up until now has been me, giving and giving with no return. For the first time in a long time, someone is giving to ME. It feels divine. In this moment I feel like a queen.
“OOOH! ARMAN… FASTER!” I plead.
He picks up the pace vigorously rubbing two fingers along my clitoris. A tingling sensation runs down my thighs and up my spine. Every microscopic hair on my body is at attention. I clench my fists, bite my lip and close my eyes. His pace quickens even more causing my legs to tremble, and then it happens. Had I not been lying down, I would have collapsed because my head is spinning. I feel as light as a feather too. The world around me, my problems, my fears and doubts, for at least this moment have subsided and nothing else matters.
I no longer feel Arman’s presence. Perhaps knowing his work had been completed he’s left me to finish on my own. It doesn’t matter. For the first time in a long time, I feel satisfied. Just as satisfying is the feeling that comes when he undoes the restraints on my arms. My wrists are red from the constant tugging and struggles and my arms feel heavy as if I’d been exercising them. They barely have enough strength in them to push me into a seated position. My hair is disheveled, tossed this way and that as if I’d been struck by lightning. I watch as Arman rips off the ankle straps. My feet are blushing red.
“There are some wipes in the bathroom, if you’d like to clean yourself up.” He says in a low voice.
I peek down and see the huge wet stain on my panties. My fluids had run so wild they’d even managed to find their way onto his sheets,
“Sorry.” Was all I could say.
Arman reassured me that it was alright and stated, “You won’t be the last woman on this bed to wet the sheets.”
My legs are rubbery the second I put my weight on them. Somehow, I make it to the bathroom. I grab a wipe and place it directly onto my vagina. It’s cold to the touch. After cleaning myself up I exit the bathroom. Armin is already waiting for me, a clipboard in one hand, and a white envelope in the other. He ushers me to sit back down on the bed.
“So Diane, it was a big day for you hu?” He smiles.
“Oh, boy yes!” I say playfully.
“Did you think you were THAT ticklish?”
“Oh, no! I can’t even remember the last time I laughed this hard.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.
“What did it feel like, being restrained and knowing you couldn’t escape?”
“Absolutely terrifying.” I shake my head.
“Given the chance, would you do it again?”
I don’t answer immediately. It’s a question I have to think about, “I’ll have to get back to you on that Arman.”
He hands me the white envelope, walks me to the door and says goodbye. I don’t look back. By now, night has fallen on the city and I race home hoping to catch a few minutes of Tyler and Clark still awake.
I walk in and find Jane has already tucked them in. She’s zoned out on the television watching some special about pregnant teens in America.
“Jane? Jane?” I have to snap my fingers before she comes back to life.
“Oh, Diane!! Hi. Sorry I was spaced out for a minute there.”
“More than a minute.” I chuckle. It hurts to laugh.
“Oh, so how was your interview? Was it a success? Did you kill?” She throws these questions like daggers.
“Oh I killed alright.”
“So did you get the job?” She crosses her arms.
“Well, they REALLY liked me.”
“Oh well that’s fantastic!” Jane is already headed for the door, “You know how I could tell you done well?” She puts on her coat.
“How?” I ask and place a hand on my hip.
“There’s a gleam in your eyes. One I ain’t seen in a long time.” She gives me a hug and walks out the door.
I turn off the TV and creep quietly into Tyler and Clark’s room. They’re sound asleep. From my purse I pull out the white envelope Arman had handed me earlier and I tear it open to check the contents. There in a stack of twelve 20’s and a single 10, two hundred and fifty dollars. I count it again because it shouldn’t be two hundred and fifty dollars. Good God it is!! I know I’m bad at math, but there’s no mistaking it, Arman gave me a hundred percent of my earnings.
It’s my assumption that Arman forgot to take twenty five dollars from my pay until something else slips out of the envelope. It falls to the floor. I kneel down to pick up a small piece of paper with the words, “Hope again.” written in black sharpie.
