This is not your typical tickling story. If you're looking for something light and fanciful bordering on the intense, this isn't really for you. Nor is this for you if you're looking for something at least reasonably sane. In fact, I hope I don't offend.
How this Part is received determines whether I post the next Parts.
Suitably warned, if you still wish to read the below, you may proceed.
=========================================================
Part I: Carter
“When the human male ejaculates, he expels between fifteen and twenty milliliters of semen,” I explained, “And each milliliter is approximately one gram in weight.” This Reaper was obviously far beyond listening to me.
That’s what I called them, my former friends, former lovers, former cousins of the living race; I called them Reapers. Carter, Dell, Eric, Mac, and the plain-as-vanilla-ice-cream, Moira had taken to the fields twenty years ago and sowed the seeds which were then ripe for harvest. One reaps what one sows.
Hate filled his blue eyes – seething hated – and I knew just then my vengeance over him was complete. A shiver coursed through me and it was better than any orgasm I’d ever felt. He hated me more than he feared pain or death; in that moment he was as helpless as he and the others made me. All that remained of his body was the terrible pleasures I inflicted; all that remained of his mind was the hatred that I was doing it.
(*pleased grin* I didn’t really care if the Reaper made it through my little game or not so long as I saw helplessness become hatred. Not only did I see it in Carter, it radiated from him like light from a bulb. *smirking* You’ll get it in a few minutes; just hear me out.)
I tilted my head as a mother to her babe, and cooed condescendingly, “Aww, can’t do the math with all the blood in your cock?” For good measure I cupped my hand around his oil-slicked cock, and stroked it once, insolently. It was like he had been hit with an electric shock.
(*a lilting giggle* The irony.)
“I’ve forced your orgasm now three times over the last six hours and you’ve produced about fifty milliliters of semen so far,” again with the single stroke, “which means, my dear Carter, you have to hope that you don’t produce ten more - sixty milliliters is all the scale will take before –“ and I grinned with delicious satisfaction, “ – well, it’ll be more than just your name up in lights.”
(*a raised eyebrow* What? You didn’t think that one was funny? Well – I still haven’t told you how he’s ‘wired’ up. *chortle*)
Carter was teetering on the edge of his fourth orgasm, his last. In fact I could tell you it was nearly his last everything. But vengeance is sweeter when cruel. And I had been cruel.
For twenty years – twenty long years - I plotted and researched, schemed and experimented with countless victims – ahh, test subjects – and made what life this is singularly about undoing those who undid me. I was far, far beyond the anger, the angst, the ache; I had only the dish best served cold; I had neither want of nor need for anything else. How is it said - “Wronged, I shall have my revenge”?
I came to Carter in the guise of his strongest temptation and though heeled with wife and children, he did not have the strength to resist. I knew him craven and that he would seize the chance for a ‘blown fuse’; he welcomed me, rushing headlong into my grasp (*snigger* you can figure which head I mean). I was his potter; he was my clay.
Oh, it took me ages to learn how to change my appearance; once finding the key I was stupefied by its simplicity. Then were the lessons in sounds and smells. Deceiving the eyes is uncomplicated – confounding the ears and nose is hard. It’s amazing how easily the smallest touch of a fragrance will break a visual spell. There’s some sort of short circuit (*snickers*) that connect memories to scents – and memories alone are able to unravel all but the most powerful visual glamors. I am strong after twenty years, but not that strong. For Carter and the other Reapers, I would not have to be that strong.
He was so totally convinced by my glamour that I was someone else he thought himself dreaming when I stepped from behind the facade.
(Wherever he is now I bet he still wishes it was all a dream. But where were we? Ah, yes … )
The Reaper – Carter - was bound, naked, covered in sweat and tears, his cock rigid and balls ready to burst. Shackled spread-eagled on a rough wooden table his backside was raw and bloodied from the table’s splinters stabbing and tearing at his skin. (*giggles* One would think the pain would have helped his self control, but alas, it did not. *laughter*) The table was stood vertically, binding him as a living Vitruviana.
The shackle about his left wrist was attached to the positive terminal of a two hundred thousand volt generator; that about his right ankle to the negative terminal. The only thing which prevented current from flowing ankle-to-wrist – through his blackened heart - was the dead-man’s switch (*giggling* oh the puns are thick tonight!) atop which rested a petri dish. It was into that dish I directed Carter’s semen; to that point around fifty grams of it. The scale was balanced so that a weight of seventy-five grams would trip the switch; in the end, all I’d need Carter to – uh, “contribute” – was about sixty grams. Unless I had totally underestimated the effects of my tickles and teases, he probably had one more good orgasm left before his lights went out.
( You’re getting these now, right? *laughter*)
And don’t think he didn’t try to resist. Oh, he tried. But when one understands a thing, that thing can be controlled, coerced; dominated. And after twenty years of crawling, observing, and planning, I understand Carter and the rest of the Reapers better than they know themselves - better than their wives and doctors and mistresses, combined. At some point they would all feel that fruits of that familiarity, just as Carter was then. At that moment I was his Angel of Death, his immoral Holy Spirit; the dark salvation I offered would be eye for an eye.
Like the other four Reaper bastards, he was ticklish and tickling turned him on. For the few short moments he could resist, he had hope. But my tickling fingers and implements always proved too much, just like theirs had done to me. Laughing and cackling and swearing, his cock would rise; fully erect I would then insert it into an oiled fleshlight. Then the tickling would begin in earnest.
Using my fingernails, the end of my braid, and a host of other toys collected for just this sort of torture – ah, experience – I tickled him savagely, making him buck and twist, thrusting his cock through the fleshlight until his orgasm could not be denied. Though the danger was explained to him, though I warned him of the consequences of losing control, still his cock rose when he was tickled; thrust through the fleshlight it came.
Oh, I mentioned being cruel. One might think that being strapped to such a contraption and tickled to orgasm, under the threat of electrocution, is cruel enough. But that’s just not sporting. Unless the human male suffers from some sort of physical or mental ailment, his reptile-brained biology makes holding an orgasm nearly impossible when his cock is properly motivated. Nearly; when I was sixteen I dated a boy who could hold his orgasm, no matter how motivated his cock; believe me, three of my girlfriends and I took turns one night trying to prove him wrong. He proved us wrong, though. I still miss him and think about him to this day.
( *wistful sigh* )
Anyway, millennia of fucking with a spear in one hand and a female in the other has ingrained this instinct into the male’s DNA; the urge to spread his seed as far and wide – and as quickly - as he is able is quite ‘hardwired’ (*lilting laughter* Tell me you’re getting these now!). Sometimes the male’s mind is more motivated than his body; ever see a soldier ejaculate in his pants while trying to save his wounded brothers? Neither have I. So, I gave Carter a chance. Sort of.
“To be fair,” I told him, just after waking him to the final hours of his life, “to give you a chance to save yourself and go home to that sweet lil’ wife of yours, I’ve set a timer. If you’re not a human electrode in twelve hours, you’ll be free to go. Free to ignore your kids again and masturbate in the shower over those good times with that freaky girl from high school – ooo, that would be me, wouldn’t it?” And to really skewer his heart, I added with a smirk, “Tell you what; if you can resist my lil’ tickles – and what strong, masculine man can’t resist a little tickling? - I’ll let you call the cops on me,” I paused to make sure I had his attention, “After I let you handcuff me. How much time before you call the cops after cuffing me is up to you.”
Putting my wrists together I mimed being cuffed, stretching my hands above my head. His body already betrayed him at that point; the teasing visual and mention of handcuffing me made his cock twitch and began to lengthen.
(When we were teen lovers our code for fucking was ‘cuff and stuff’. *giggle*)
As I suspected, I had plenty of time. The timer read just under six hours and all I needed was one more orgasm from him – perhaps two if I’d drained too much from him too quickly – and he’d have the most shocking experience of his life.
(Really, the puns just happen when I’m in this kind of mood!)
After his third orgasm, Carter took to screaming; actually it was more of a wail. It was the kind of sound an aggrieved mother might make for her dying son. The Reaper knew I had his number, knew he was helpless, and knew his body would betray him once too often, irrespective of how much he resisted.
(Did you get that one? Hooked up to the generator as he was he’d become a human resistor once the switch was thrown. *raised eyebrow* You sure you don’t think I’m funny? )
At some point during our game I knew coherence would fail him and he’d be reduced to a sort of slobbering ball of flesh. To make it more interesting I strapped a ball-gag to his mouth – it was like giving a bridle to a horse. It was very pleasing to hear the hitching and muffled keening his wail became behind the ball gag. Yes, I wanted him to wail, but I wanted him to fight for air to do it.
They made me fight for air until there was none left to win.
So I had lots of time just then; really, it wasn’t cruel was it? I mean, twelve hours of tickle torture and orgasm control in the balance against the rest of one’s life is –totally- not cruel, right?
(*laughter* Right?)
So, the genny was fueled and running, ready to shoot its load from one side of Carter to the other. I wondered what color his blonde hair would be .. after his shock ther-a-py.
(Now I’m rhyming! Good God I’m in a mood!)
I reinserted his angry, red cock into the fleshlight and aimed it at the petri dish. He knew what was coming (Surely you got that one!) and the screams took on a whole different tenor, a whole different terror. Oh, hatred fumed from his pores and his tear-flooded eyes ominously daggered my demise. I couldn’t help but laugh – and laugh I did. Just like they laughed at me.
Still giggling, I lit (Get that one? Lit! Like a light bulb! *sigh* Sometimes I amuse only myself.) into him with my nails, scrabbling and tickling under his arms, over his ribs, across his belly, and delighted as wailing turned to laughter; helpless, begging, shocking laughter (Really – did I need to point this one out?). Tears still freely flowed down his cheeks but it was laughter forced from his lungs.
Did I mention Carter’s balls are – were! – ticklish? It’s like getting two for the price of one at the local Piggly Wiggly; tickling his balls made him laugh with abandon, made his hips thrust harder and faster, which made it harder to control his orgasm.
(The male anatomy can sometimes be a beautiful thing. Especially when it’s working for me!)
It didn’t take long. I recognized the tell-tale signs of an impending orgasm, even through his desperate cackles. Between all the victims – Test Subjects! – and paying attention to Carter’s first three orgasms, I knew his was surging and on the edge. His hips thrust a final, deadly thrust and his cock launched a deluge of semen towards the petri dish. Unable to control himself, even in the face of the consequences, when his orgasm started, he bucked his hips, feeding his hungry cock from the slickened walls of the fleshlight.
I stopped tickling him just before the orgasm broke free – I didn’t want to be part of the circuit should he trip the switch. His begging became frantic, even as the ejaculate shot from the tip of his cock, even as his hips lewdly thrust. He jerked impotently against the shackles, screaming at the top of his lungs, begging me around the ball gag to forgive him, to free him, to think of his wife and kids; to let him live.
(Honey, I’m here to tell you - revenge is so not cold.)
So moved by his penance I couldn’t help myself; my loins jolted (Yet another! *laughter*) with a spontaneous orgasm. Weakened by unexpected orgasm, my knees trembled with the effort to keep me standing. When I heard the ‘clunk’ of the switch being thrown and watched as Carter reaped what he’d sown, another wave of orgasmic release took me, buckling my knees and sending me to the floor.
My euphoria passed and I rose unsteadily to my feet. I’d never felt such release – such bliss! - before; the power, the inevitability, the overwhelming taste of revenge. Twenty years of waiting; twenty long years; oh, there were then no ashes upon which to dine; there was only sweet, savory delight.
The genny had enough fuel for another three days. Perhaps someone found his corpse before then, perhaps not. I left him there, the first of five Reapers, long past dying, long into dead. His harvest had been bountiful.
I walked into the night feeling charged from the whole experience.
(Tell me you got that one, at least. *laughter* Ahhhh, it doesn’t matter.)
One down, four to go. Dell, Eric, Mac, and Moira would reap what they’d sown, just like Carter.
I stopped on my way back to the truck to place a call at a public payphone. The phone rang three times and I hung up and called again, my signal as caller. The phone was answered, “Yes?”
I said, “It is finished.”
“Perfect. I’ll be ready.”
“As will I.”
“Don’t call this one again – I’m throwing it overboard now.” *click*
A few minutes later I was in the truck and headed down the highway to my safe house. To say I was wired would be an understatement. (Wired! You got that one, right? Wired – like electricity flows through wires - *sigh* nevermind. I’m not that funny am I?).
Who am I? (*sigh*) My name is Lydia – or it used to be.
When I died, I was barely eighteen years old.
=========================================================
To Be Continued ....
How this Part is received determines whether I post the next Parts.
Suitably warned, if you still wish to read the below, you may proceed.
=========================================================
Part I: Carter
“When the human male ejaculates, he expels between fifteen and twenty milliliters of semen,” I explained, “And each milliliter is approximately one gram in weight.” This Reaper was obviously far beyond listening to me.
That’s what I called them, my former friends, former lovers, former cousins of the living race; I called them Reapers. Carter, Dell, Eric, Mac, and the plain-as-vanilla-ice-cream, Moira had taken to the fields twenty years ago and sowed the seeds which were then ripe for harvest. One reaps what one sows.
Hate filled his blue eyes – seething hated – and I knew just then my vengeance over him was complete. A shiver coursed through me and it was better than any orgasm I’d ever felt. He hated me more than he feared pain or death; in that moment he was as helpless as he and the others made me. All that remained of his body was the terrible pleasures I inflicted; all that remained of his mind was the hatred that I was doing it.
(*pleased grin* I didn’t really care if the Reaper made it through my little game or not so long as I saw helplessness become hatred. Not only did I see it in Carter, it radiated from him like light from a bulb. *smirking* You’ll get it in a few minutes; just hear me out.)
I tilted my head as a mother to her babe, and cooed condescendingly, “Aww, can’t do the math with all the blood in your cock?” For good measure I cupped my hand around his oil-slicked cock, and stroked it once, insolently. It was like he had been hit with an electric shock.
(*a lilting giggle* The irony.)
“I’ve forced your orgasm now three times over the last six hours and you’ve produced about fifty milliliters of semen so far,” again with the single stroke, “which means, my dear Carter, you have to hope that you don’t produce ten more - sixty milliliters is all the scale will take before –“ and I grinned with delicious satisfaction, “ – well, it’ll be more than just your name up in lights.”
(*a raised eyebrow* What? You didn’t think that one was funny? Well – I still haven’t told you how he’s ‘wired’ up. *chortle*)
Carter was teetering on the edge of his fourth orgasm, his last. In fact I could tell you it was nearly his last everything. But vengeance is sweeter when cruel. And I had been cruel.
For twenty years – twenty long years - I plotted and researched, schemed and experimented with countless victims – ahh, test subjects – and made what life this is singularly about undoing those who undid me. I was far, far beyond the anger, the angst, the ache; I had only the dish best served cold; I had neither want of nor need for anything else. How is it said - “Wronged, I shall have my revenge”?
I came to Carter in the guise of his strongest temptation and though heeled with wife and children, he did not have the strength to resist. I knew him craven and that he would seize the chance for a ‘blown fuse’; he welcomed me, rushing headlong into my grasp (*snigger* you can figure which head I mean). I was his potter; he was my clay.
Oh, it took me ages to learn how to change my appearance; once finding the key I was stupefied by its simplicity. Then were the lessons in sounds and smells. Deceiving the eyes is uncomplicated – confounding the ears and nose is hard. It’s amazing how easily the smallest touch of a fragrance will break a visual spell. There’s some sort of short circuit (*snickers*) that connect memories to scents – and memories alone are able to unravel all but the most powerful visual glamors. I am strong after twenty years, but not that strong. For Carter and the other Reapers, I would not have to be that strong.
He was so totally convinced by my glamour that I was someone else he thought himself dreaming when I stepped from behind the facade.
(Wherever he is now I bet he still wishes it was all a dream. But where were we? Ah, yes … )
The Reaper – Carter - was bound, naked, covered in sweat and tears, his cock rigid and balls ready to burst. Shackled spread-eagled on a rough wooden table his backside was raw and bloodied from the table’s splinters stabbing and tearing at his skin. (*giggles* One would think the pain would have helped his self control, but alas, it did not. *laughter*) The table was stood vertically, binding him as a living Vitruviana.
The shackle about his left wrist was attached to the positive terminal of a two hundred thousand volt generator; that about his right ankle to the negative terminal. The only thing which prevented current from flowing ankle-to-wrist – through his blackened heart - was the dead-man’s switch (*giggling* oh the puns are thick tonight!) atop which rested a petri dish. It was into that dish I directed Carter’s semen; to that point around fifty grams of it. The scale was balanced so that a weight of seventy-five grams would trip the switch; in the end, all I’d need Carter to – uh, “contribute” – was about sixty grams. Unless I had totally underestimated the effects of my tickles and teases, he probably had one more good orgasm left before his lights went out.
( You’re getting these now, right? *laughter*)
And don’t think he didn’t try to resist. Oh, he tried. But when one understands a thing, that thing can be controlled, coerced; dominated. And after twenty years of crawling, observing, and planning, I understand Carter and the rest of the Reapers better than they know themselves - better than their wives and doctors and mistresses, combined. At some point they would all feel that fruits of that familiarity, just as Carter was then. At that moment I was his Angel of Death, his immoral Holy Spirit; the dark salvation I offered would be eye for an eye.
Like the other four Reaper bastards, he was ticklish and tickling turned him on. For the few short moments he could resist, he had hope. But my tickling fingers and implements always proved too much, just like theirs had done to me. Laughing and cackling and swearing, his cock would rise; fully erect I would then insert it into an oiled fleshlight. Then the tickling would begin in earnest.
Using my fingernails, the end of my braid, and a host of other toys collected for just this sort of torture – ah, experience – I tickled him savagely, making him buck and twist, thrusting his cock through the fleshlight until his orgasm could not be denied. Though the danger was explained to him, though I warned him of the consequences of losing control, still his cock rose when he was tickled; thrust through the fleshlight it came.
Oh, I mentioned being cruel. One might think that being strapped to such a contraption and tickled to orgasm, under the threat of electrocution, is cruel enough. But that’s just not sporting. Unless the human male suffers from some sort of physical or mental ailment, his reptile-brained biology makes holding an orgasm nearly impossible when his cock is properly motivated. Nearly; when I was sixteen I dated a boy who could hold his orgasm, no matter how motivated his cock; believe me, three of my girlfriends and I took turns one night trying to prove him wrong. He proved us wrong, though. I still miss him and think about him to this day.
( *wistful sigh* )
Anyway, millennia of fucking with a spear in one hand and a female in the other has ingrained this instinct into the male’s DNA; the urge to spread his seed as far and wide – and as quickly - as he is able is quite ‘hardwired’ (*lilting laughter* Tell me you’re getting these now!). Sometimes the male’s mind is more motivated than his body; ever see a soldier ejaculate in his pants while trying to save his wounded brothers? Neither have I. So, I gave Carter a chance. Sort of.
“To be fair,” I told him, just after waking him to the final hours of his life, “to give you a chance to save yourself and go home to that sweet lil’ wife of yours, I’ve set a timer. If you’re not a human electrode in twelve hours, you’ll be free to go. Free to ignore your kids again and masturbate in the shower over those good times with that freaky girl from high school – ooo, that would be me, wouldn’t it?” And to really skewer his heart, I added with a smirk, “Tell you what; if you can resist my lil’ tickles – and what strong, masculine man can’t resist a little tickling? - I’ll let you call the cops on me,” I paused to make sure I had his attention, “After I let you handcuff me. How much time before you call the cops after cuffing me is up to you.”
Putting my wrists together I mimed being cuffed, stretching my hands above my head. His body already betrayed him at that point; the teasing visual and mention of handcuffing me made his cock twitch and began to lengthen.
(When we were teen lovers our code for fucking was ‘cuff and stuff’. *giggle*)
As I suspected, I had plenty of time. The timer read just under six hours and all I needed was one more orgasm from him – perhaps two if I’d drained too much from him too quickly – and he’d have the most shocking experience of his life.
(Really, the puns just happen when I’m in this kind of mood!)
After his third orgasm, Carter took to screaming; actually it was more of a wail. It was the kind of sound an aggrieved mother might make for her dying son. The Reaper knew I had his number, knew he was helpless, and knew his body would betray him once too often, irrespective of how much he resisted.
(Did you get that one? Hooked up to the generator as he was he’d become a human resistor once the switch was thrown. *raised eyebrow* You sure you don’t think I’m funny? )
At some point during our game I knew coherence would fail him and he’d be reduced to a sort of slobbering ball of flesh. To make it more interesting I strapped a ball-gag to his mouth – it was like giving a bridle to a horse. It was very pleasing to hear the hitching and muffled keening his wail became behind the ball gag. Yes, I wanted him to wail, but I wanted him to fight for air to do it.
They made me fight for air until there was none left to win.
So I had lots of time just then; really, it wasn’t cruel was it? I mean, twelve hours of tickle torture and orgasm control in the balance against the rest of one’s life is –totally- not cruel, right?
(*laughter* Right?)
So, the genny was fueled and running, ready to shoot its load from one side of Carter to the other. I wondered what color his blonde hair would be .. after his shock ther-a-py.
(Now I’m rhyming! Good God I’m in a mood!)
I reinserted his angry, red cock into the fleshlight and aimed it at the petri dish. He knew what was coming (Surely you got that one!) and the screams took on a whole different tenor, a whole different terror. Oh, hatred fumed from his pores and his tear-flooded eyes ominously daggered my demise. I couldn’t help but laugh – and laugh I did. Just like they laughed at me.
Still giggling, I lit (Get that one? Lit! Like a light bulb! *sigh* Sometimes I amuse only myself.) into him with my nails, scrabbling and tickling under his arms, over his ribs, across his belly, and delighted as wailing turned to laughter; helpless, begging, shocking laughter (Really – did I need to point this one out?). Tears still freely flowed down his cheeks but it was laughter forced from his lungs.
Did I mention Carter’s balls are – were! – ticklish? It’s like getting two for the price of one at the local Piggly Wiggly; tickling his balls made him laugh with abandon, made his hips thrust harder and faster, which made it harder to control his orgasm.
(The male anatomy can sometimes be a beautiful thing. Especially when it’s working for me!)
It didn’t take long. I recognized the tell-tale signs of an impending orgasm, even through his desperate cackles. Between all the victims – Test Subjects! – and paying attention to Carter’s first three orgasms, I knew his was surging and on the edge. His hips thrust a final, deadly thrust and his cock launched a deluge of semen towards the petri dish. Unable to control himself, even in the face of the consequences, when his orgasm started, he bucked his hips, feeding his hungry cock from the slickened walls of the fleshlight.
I stopped tickling him just before the orgasm broke free – I didn’t want to be part of the circuit should he trip the switch. His begging became frantic, even as the ejaculate shot from the tip of his cock, even as his hips lewdly thrust. He jerked impotently against the shackles, screaming at the top of his lungs, begging me around the ball gag to forgive him, to free him, to think of his wife and kids; to let him live.
(Honey, I’m here to tell you - revenge is so not cold.)
So moved by his penance I couldn’t help myself; my loins jolted (Yet another! *laughter*) with a spontaneous orgasm. Weakened by unexpected orgasm, my knees trembled with the effort to keep me standing. When I heard the ‘clunk’ of the switch being thrown and watched as Carter reaped what he’d sown, another wave of orgasmic release took me, buckling my knees and sending me to the floor.
My euphoria passed and I rose unsteadily to my feet. I’d never felt such release – such bliss! - before; the power, the inevitability, the overwhelming taste of revenge. Twenty years of waiting; twenty long years; oh, there were then no ashes upon which to dine; there was only sweet, savory delight.
The genny had enough fuel for another three days. Perhaps someone found his corpse before then, perhaps not. I left him there, the first of five Reapers, long past dying, long into dead. His harvest had been bountiful.
I walked into the night feeling charged from the whole experience.
(Tell me you got that one, at least. *laughter* Ahhhh, it doesn’t matter.)
One down, four to go. Dell, Eric, Mac, and Moira would reap what they’d sown, just like Carter.
I stopped on my way back to the truck to place a call at a public payphone. The phone rang three times and I hung up and called again, my signal as caller. The phone was answered, “Yes?”
I said, “It is finished.”
“Perfect. I’ll be ready.”
“As will I.”
“Don’t call this one again – I’m throwing it overboard now.” *click*
A few minutes later I was in the truck and headed down the highway to my safe house. To say I was wired would be an understatement. (Wired! You got that one, right? Wired – like electricity flows through wires - *sigh* nevermind. I’m not that funny am I?).
Who am I? (*sigh*) My name is Lydia – or it used to be.
When I died, I was barely eighteen years old.
=========================================================
To Be Continued ....
