clean_kitchen
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Aug 14, 2002
- Messages
- 114
- Points
- 0
Tables Turned, part 2
by clean_kitchen
This is a story I posted on the TMF yesterday, so most of you have proably already seen it. I'm nothing if not redundant and repetitive.
Part 1: http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=52944
I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew I would have to find a way to be there.
The memory of our ordeal was fresh in my mind, made moreso as I continuously replayed the events in my mind. What an unbelievable dream come true! Not 48 hours ago two deranged women broke into my house with the sole purpose of tying my wife and I to the bed and tickling us silly. The odds of such women existing outside of stories posted on message boards were tiny, and the odds that they would actually pick me were infinitesimal.
And yet, it had happened. I got home first and they were waiting. I was pinned to the floor and begging for them to stop before I even knew what was happening. Then my wife got home. With an unrealized threat of actual violence, they stripped us to our underwear and tied us stretched out and face down beside each on our bed. Then they tickled us.
As eager as they were skillful, they got us good. They even got us to play a game in which they tickled me until I told them where to tickle my wife, and then they tickled her there until she told them where to tickle me. They continued like this for hours, ultimately leaving us thoroughly tickled and exhausted.
The evening ended with one final interrogation. Starting with me and eventually moving to my wife, they let loose with one final barrage of incredible tickling with the purpose of having me tell them what unsuspecting couple should be their next victims. I -- we -- resisted as best we could, but we finally relented and gave them the names and address of my wife's brother and his wife. The two women told us they would visit my wife's brother on Sunday night. They left us tied with the threat not to warn their next victims, or they would revisit us, and next time they wouldn't be so "nice."
I wasn't sure that would be such a bad thing.
. . .
Sunday afternoon came quickly. Neither my wife nor I had slept well; she for fear that the women would be back and I for fear they wouldn't. We didn't talk about it much. I knew how she felt about it, and she assumed I felt the same as her. I didn't attempt to correct her.
The only obsession stronger than the memory of what had happened was the thought of what was going to happen. We had seen my wife's brother, Paul, and his wife, Natalie, that morning. We relayed the story of our ordeal while leaving out the last bit about them. I watched Natalie instinctively hug her arms a little tighter to her sides and tuck her feet under her chair. I had never seen anyone tickle her, but I could tell she was ticklish and she knew it.
My mind was racing to find a way I could be there to see it. I wasn't really into seeing Paul get it, but knowing that those women were going to tickle Natalie tonight was driving me mad. I knew I had to be there.
There were two dangers inherent to my scheme. The first and most obvious was the danger of being discovered by the intruders and getting tickle tortured again. That was definitely a risk I was willing to take. Not only was the reward worth it, but I knew I really wanted them to tickle me again.
The second danger was social in nature. What if I was somehow implicated in what was going on? I wasn't ready for people to find out I was such a tickling enthusiast. I could avoid that under the pretense of trying to help Paul and Natalie, but my wife would be outraged to know I risked her getting tickled again.
I decided I had to go for it. There was no way I would miss this. I gave my wife a clever and surprisingly believable excuse for why I needed to go out for a while that evening and why I might be a bit late coming home. I slipped the spare key to Paul's house in my pocket as I walked out the door.
. . .
It was dark when I arrived at Paul and Natalie's house. There were no lights in the windows, but the garage door was open and their car was inside. I slunk in to the garage and found the door into the house was open a crack. Perfect. The open door gave me the excuse I would need: if the intruders weren't here, I could simply say I was driving by and noticed an open door.
I slipped into the entryway. I could immediately hear the sound of muffled laughter coming from another part of the house. My luck continued in that all the lights were off, leaving me plenty of shadows in which to hide. (That's not unimportant given that I stand over six-and-a-half feet tall. I don't exactly blend in.)
I crawled into the living room and ducked behind the couch. From there I could see at an angle through the hallway into the bedroom. The door was wide open, providing an unobscured view of what was happening inside. My heart seemed to screech to a halt at what I saw.
. . .
On the bed, tied on her back at her wrists and ankles, arms high above her head, was Natalie, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. She twisted and struggled as best she could, filling the room with a steady stream of laughter. At the foot of the bed with her back to the door was one of the intruders. Her hands flicked and skittered up and down Natalie's soles without remorse for her desperate pleas.
It was a beautiful sight and would have been worth the trip all by itself, but my attention was drawn to the other source of laughter coming from the room. The laugh wasn't masculine, but high and nearly a cackle. It was my wife's mother! She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. The women had tied her to a chair, her feet tied to another chair in front of her. The second intruder was vigorously scribbling her fingernails across her wriggling soles in a random pattern.
My wife's mother, Samantha, was still attractive in her late forties. Petite like my wife and Natalie, her feet were also small, but wider at the toes. Like my wife's and Natalie's, they were also extremely ticklish.
I was almost light headed from the sight of the two women being mercilessly tickled on their feet. How often had I fantasized about this? it was almost surreal. But where was Paul?
The intruders had the same question. The two women stopped tickling their victim's feet, leaving them both giggling and gasping for air, pleading for the tickling to stop.
"Like we said," one of the intruders responded, "we want to know when your husband is getting home."
"I ... told you ... he's on ... a trip for work ... He left today...," Natalie panted, still recovering from the latest interrogation session.
"We don't believe you," the intruder said, matter-of-factly.
"Please ... it's the truth ... don't tickle me ..."
"OK," said the intruder with a sly grin, "We'll give you a break."
"Thank you ... thank you ..." Natalie seemed to relax a bit, closing her eyes, her breathing beginning to return to normal. The intruder walked over to Samantha.
"If you won't tell us," she said as she kneeled behind the bound woman's chair, "perhaps your mother-in-law will."
I guessed they learned that bit of information earlier in the evening. Natalie sprang back to life, begging them to leave Samantha alone.
"She doesn't know anything! She just stopped by because she knew Paul would be gone!"
"Too bad for her," the woman taunted. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you lied to us."
"Please!" Samantha was now begging on behalf of herself. "She's not lying! She's not Lyyyyyeeeeeeeeehehehehahahahahaahahahah!"
The woman at Samantha's feet resumed her work on the exposed soles, this time drawing slow and deliberate paths with her nails. Samantha went crazy, laughing, squealing and begging incoherently. Natalie, too was yelling for the intruders to stop but she was drowned out by the high staccato laughter of the elder victim.
Samantha's eyes, previously shut tight opened wide with ticklish surprise as the second intruder snaked her hands underneath her blouse and began running her fingers across Samantha's sides and tummy like a couple of spastic spiders. Samantha struggled so much it seemed the chairs would break, but they stayed intact. One particularly strong attempt to escape the torturous fingers managed to upend the two chairs, leaving Samantha still bound to the chairs laying on her side. The tickling did not let up.
The intruder at Samantha's feet moved up between the two chairs and began tickling the backs of Samantha's legs, bringing new squeals from the hysterical woman. She alternated between light scratches with her nails and squeezing sensitive areas around her knees.
Natalie strained to see what the women were doing to Samantha, still begging them to stop. Her pleas, while sincere, sounded only half-hearted. She must have known that an answer to the request to stop tickling her mother-in-law would certainly include them tickling her.
Samantha's ordeal eventually did stop. The women left the exhausted woman on the floor, still begging for mercy even though the torment had ceased. The women approached Natalie, who began to panic. There was no banter, no questions, just a single statement before the first tickled scream: "Your turn."
The women knelt on either side of Natalie's outstretched frame and began tickling her sides. They poked an squeezed up and down her exposed ribcage, bringing short squeals of laughter from the helpless woman.
Natalie's desperation grew as one of the women pulled her shirt up and tucked it behind her head.
"Now for some real fun," she commented each of them produced a pair of feathers.
Natalie began to beg but her sentence dissolved into screaming laughter as the feathers began to dance over her nearly naked torso. They traced up and down her sides, danced along her tummy, twirled in her armpits and licked at her chest and neck. She squealed and giggled as the intruders tickled her, lost in the terrible sensations.
I found myself absentmindedly running my fingers along my own side, imagining -- remembering -- what it was like to be in her spot, wishing I was in her place again. That desire, however, was overridden by the joy of watching natalie get it. I wished it would never end.
Unfortunately for Natalie, the intruders agreed with me. They continued the feather torture for several minutes, now lingering on especially sensitive areas of her upper body, of which there many.
Natalie's torso finally received a much needed break, but Natalie did not. Each woman straddled an ankle, facing Natalie's head and began to apply the feathers to her legs. Natalie's laughter didn't break stride at the new sensations. The feathers traced up and down her legs in random trails from her ankles to her shorts about two-thirds of the way up her thighs. One of the women slid her feathers several inches up the leg of her shorts and along her hipline eliciting heightened squeals from the already hysterical girl. One of the women put down her feathers and went to work on Natalie's legs with her fingers. The difference in sensations was maddening.
I knew what was coming when the intruders slid off the end of the bed, and I'm sure Natalie did, too. Even giddy and exhausted from being tickled so bad, she renewed her pleas in earnest as they approached her feet.
"No! Not that! Get away! Not the feet! Not the feet!"
The women responded with fingers and feathers. Each glided a feather along a smooth and sensitive arch while dancing the fingers of the other hand on a heel or under the toes.
Natalie laughed with new strength, as if they had just begun to tickle her. She alternated between high squeals and silent, breathless laughter. On of the women bent Natalie's toes back and slid the feather in between her toes. Natalie was lost in the sensations. There was nothing in her world but her feet and the things that touched them.
I was nearly as single minded, completely enthralled by those tickled feet. I glanced over at Samantha. She had long since recovered from her little session, and now lay quietly watching, pity in her eyes but saying nothing, hoping there was no next turn for her.
I hadn't realized they had stopped tickling Natalie because of her lingering laughter. That's the same time I realized I couldn't see one of the intruders. Not good. The remaining woman was talking to Natalie, telling her that her friend had gone to get her some water from the kitchen.
Crap! The kitchen was right behind where I was hiding. If the intruder was in the kitchen, there was a good chance...
"Hello, little spy." The voice behind me was calm, feminine and familiar.
by clean_kitchen
This is a story I posted on the TMF yesterday, so most of you have proably already seen it. I'm nothing if not redundant and repetitive.
Part 1: http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=52944
I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew I would have to find a way to be there.
The memory of our ordeal was fresh in my mind, made moreso as I continuously replayed the events in my mind. What an unbelievable dream come true! Not 48 hours ago two deranged women broke into my house with the sole purpose of tying my wife and I to the bed and tickling us silly. The odds of such women existing outside of stories posted on message boards were tiny, and the odds that they would actually pick me were infinitesimal.
And yet, it had happened. I got home first and they were waiting. I was pinned to the floor and begging for them to stop before I even knew what was happening. Then my wife got home. With an unrealized threat of actual violence, they stripped us to our underwear and tied us stretched out and face down beside each on our bed. Then they tickled us.
As eager as they were skillful, they got us good. They even got us to play a game in which they tickled me until I told them where to tickle my wife, and then they tickled her there until she told them where to tickle me. They continued like this for hours, ultimately leaving us thoroughly tickled and exhausted.
The evening ended with one final interrogation. Starting with me and eventually moving to my wife, they let loose with one final barrage of incredible tickling with the purpose of having me tell them what unsuspecting couple should be their next victims. I -- we -- resisted as best we could, but we finally relented and gave them the names and address of my wife's brother and his wife. The two women told us they would visit my wife's brother on Sunday night. They left us tied with the threat not to warn their next victims, or they would revisit us, and next time they wouldn't be so "nice."
I wasn't sure that would be such a bad thing.
. . .
Sunday afternoon came quickly. Neither my wife nor I had slept well; she for fear that the women would be back and I for fear they wouldn't. We didn't talk about it much. I knew how she felt about it, and she assumed I felt the same as her. I didn't attempt to correct her.
The only obsession stronger than the memory of what had happened was the thought of what was going to happen. We had seen my wife's brother, Paul, and his wife, Natalie, that morning. We relayed the story of our ordeal while leaving out the last bit about them. I watched Natalie instinctively hug her arms a little tighter to her sides and tuck her feet under her chair. I had never seen anyone tickle her, but I could tell she was ticklish and she knew it.
My mind was racing to find a way I could be there to see it. I wasn't really into seeing Paul get it, but knowing that those women were going to tickle Natalie tonight was driving me mad. I knew I had to be there.
There were two dangers inherent to my scheme. The first and most obvious was the danger of being discovered by the intruders and getting tickle tortured again. That was definitely a risk I was willing to take. Not only was the reward worth it, but I knew I really wanted them to tickle me again.
The second danger was social in nature. What if I was somehow implicated in what was going on? I wasn't ready for people to find out I was such a tickling enthusiast. I could avoid that under the pretense of trying to help Paul and Natalie, but my wife would be outraged to know I risked her getting tickled again.
I decided I had to go for it. There was no way I would miss this. I gave my wife a clever and surprisingly believable excuse for why I needed to go out for a while that evening and why I might be a bit late coming home. I slipped the spare key to Paul's house in my pocket as I walked out the door.
. . .
It was dark when I arrived at Paul and Natalie's house. There were no lights in the windows, but the garage door was open and their car was inside. I slunk in to the garage and found the door into the house was open a crack. Perfect. The open door gave me the excuse I would need: if the intruders weren't here, I could simply say I was driving by and noticed an open door.
I slipped into the entryway. I could immediately hear the sound of muffled laughter coming from another part of the house. My luck continued in that all the lights were off, leaving me plenty of shadows in which to hide. (That's not unimportant given that I stand over six-and-a-half feet tall. I don't exactly blend in.)
I crawled into the living room and ducked behind the couch. From there I could see at an angle through the hallway into the bedroom. The door was wide open, providing an unobscured view of what was happening inside. My heart seemed to screech to a halt at what I saw.
. . .
On the bed, tied on her back at her wrists and ankles, arms high above her head, was Natalie, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. She twisted and struggled as best she could, filling the room with a steady stream of laughter. At the foot of the bed with her back to the door was one of the intruders. Her hands flicked and skittered up and down Natalie's soles without remorse for her desperate pleas.
It was a beautiful sight and would have been worth the trip all by itself, but my attention was drawn to the other source of laughter coming from the room. The laugh wasn't masculine, but high and nearly a cackle. It was my wife's mother! She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless blouse. The women had tied her to a chair, her feet tied to another chair in front of her. The second intruder was vigorously scribbling her fingernails across her wriggling soles in a random pattern.
My wife's mother, Samantha, was still attractive in her late forties. Petite like my wife and Natalie, her feet were also small, but wider at the toes. Like my wife's and Natalie's, they were also extremely ticklish.
I was almost light headed from the sight of the two women being mercilessly tickled on their feet. How often had I fantasized about this? it was almost surreal. But where was Paul?
The intruders had the same question. The two women stopped tickling their victim's feet, leaving them both giggling and gasping for air, pleading for the tickling to stop.
"Like we said," one of the intruders responded, "we want to know when your husband is getting home."
"I ... told you ... he's on ... a trip for work ... He left today...," Natalie panted, still recovering from the latest interrogation session.
"We don't believe you," the intruder said, matter-of-factly.
"Please ... it's the truth ... don't tickle me ..."
"OK," said the intruder with a sly grin, "We'll give you a break."
"Thank you ... thank you ..." Natalie seemed to relax a bit, closing her eyes, her breathing beginning to return to normal. The intruder walked over to Samantha.
"If you won't tell us," she said as she kneeled behind the bound woman's chair, "perhaps your mother-in-law will."
I guessed they learned that bit of information earlier in the evening. Natalie sprang back to life, begging them to leave Samantha alone.
"She doesn't know anything! She just stopped by because she knew Paul would be gone!"
"Too bad for her," the woman taunted. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you lied to us."
"Please!" Samantha was now begging on behalf of herself. "She's not lying! She's not Lyyyyyeeeeeeeeehehehehahahahahaahahahah!"
The woman at Samantha's feet resumed her work on the exposed soles, this time drawing slow and deliberate paths with her nails. Samantha went crazy, laughing, squealing and begging incoherently. Natalie, too was yelling for the intruders to stop but she was drowned out by the high staccato laughter of the elder victim.
Samantha's eyes, previously shut tight opened wide with ticklish surprise as the second intruder snaked her hands underneath her blouse and began running her fingers across Samantha's sides and tummy like a couple of spastic spiders. Samantha struggled so much it seemed the chairs would break, but they stayed intact. One particularly strong attempt to escape the torturous fingers managed to upend the two chairs, leaving Samantha still bound to the chairs laying on her side. The tickling did not let up.
The intruder at Samantha's feet moved up between the two chairs and began tickling the backs of Samantha's legs, bringing new squeals from the hysterical woman. She alternated between light scratches with her nails and squeezing sensitive areas around her knees.
Natalie strained to see what the women were doing to Samantha, still begging them to stop. Her pleas, while sincere, sounded only half-hearted. She must have known that an answer to the request to stop tickling her mother-in-law would certainly include them tickling her.
Samantha's ordeal eventually did stop. The women left the exhausted woman on the floor, still begging for mercy even though the torment had ceased. The women approached Natalie, who began to panic. There was no banter, no questions, just a single statement before the first tickled scream: "Your turn."
The women knelt on either side of Natalie's outstretched frame and began tickling her sides. They poked an squeezed up and down her exposed ribcage, bringing short squeals of laughter from the helpless woman.
Natalie's desperation grew as one of the women pulled her shirt up and tucked it behind her head.
"Now for some real fun," she commented each of them produced a pair of feathers.
Natalie began to beg but her sentence dissolved into screaming laughter as the feathers began to dance over her nearly naked torso. They traced up and down her sides, danced along her tummy, twirled in her armpits and licked at her chest and neck. She squealed and giggled as the intruders tickled her, lost in the terrible sensations.
I found myself absentmindedly running my fingers along my own side, imagining -- remembering -- what it was like to be in her spot, wishing I was in her place again. That desire, however, was overridden by the joy of watching natalie get it. I wished it would never end.
Unfortunately for Natalie, the intruders agreed with me. They continued the feather torture for several minutes, now lingering on especially sensitive areas of her upper body, of which there many.
Natalie's torso finally received a much needed break, but Natalie did not. Each woman straddled an ankle, facing Natalie's head and began to apply the feathers to her legs. Natalie's laughter didn't break stride at the new sensations. The feathers traced up and down her legs in random trails from her ankles to her shorts about two-thirds of the way up her thighs. One of the women slid her feathers several inches up the leg of her shorts and along her hipline eliciting heightened squeals from the already hysterical girl. One of the women put down her feathers and went to work on Natalie's legs with her fingers. The difference in sensations was maddening.
I knew what was coming when the intruders slid off the end of the bed, and I'm sure Natalie did, too. Even giddy and exhausted from being tickled so bad, she renewed her pleas in earnest as they approached her feet.
"No! Not that! Get away! Not the feet! Not the feet!"
The women responded with fingers and feathers. Each glided a feather along a smooth and sensitive arch while dancing the fingers of the other hand on a heel or under the toes.
Natalie laughed with new strength, as if they had just begun to tickle her. She alternated between high squeals and silent, breathless laughter. On of the women bent Natalie's toes back and slid the feather in between her toes. Natalie was lost in the sensations. There was nothing in her world but her feet and the things that touched them.
I was nearly as single minded, completely enthralled by those tickled feet. I glanced over at Samantha. She had long since recovered from her little session, and now lay quietly watching, pity in her eyes but saying nothing, hoping there was no next turn for her.
I hadn't realized they had stopped tickling Natalie because of her lingering laughter. That's the same time I realized I couldn't see one of the intruders. Not good. The remaining woman was talking to Natalie, telling her that her friend had gone to get her some water from the kitchen.
Crap! The kitchen was right behind where I was hiding. If the intruder was in the kitchen, there was a good chance...
"Hello, little spy." The voice behind me was calm, feminine and familiar.
