ToeTruck1
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The Carver Part II
(See pic in art section)
Enjoy
The little man started to gently tug at her other shoe. He went on, ”This enchantress, of course, would have no way o’ knowin that the old carver gave up the ghost while he lay trussed on the bed like a spring lamb, for she had long since abandoned him, and disappeared into the night...” he gave a final, firm tug on her shoe and it dropped to the floor. Now both her feet were totally vulnerable to anything he chose to do to her. She, of course, thought she knew what was in store, and it was making her more afraid than she had been of anything since the evil babysitter had chased her so long ago.
”His ghost, of course, the one he gave up in this very room so long ago...” he gently stroked the toes of both of her silky feet with his thick, powerful fingers...”Stayed around the hotel for a bit... stayed in this room mostly. Made all kinds o’ racket in the wee hours, carving, sawing, chiselling and chopping...” Through the sheer nylon she felt the hard, unforgiving crescents of his thumbnails and the short but tapered edges of the other eight fingers that gently but firmly pried her little toes apart in their shadowy wrappings.
Jill’s reaction was sudden and dramatic...up until now she had been fighting to hold little giggles in check...but this...her toes being caressed in such a sinister, conniving way, she was totally unprepared for...and a huge guffaw was ripped from her throat.... such a high pitch that Jill found to her own embarrassment that it was her own little girl voice...the one she used when she was trying to be cute, trying to be funny...it was totally humiliating to have it forced out of her against her will this way...worse still, he was slowly stroking the soles of both feet with his index fingers... and a booming, hysterical series of giggles and shrieks, as if she had been sucking helium, burst out from her with all the auditory force of a jackhammer on frozen concrete.
“HEEEEYAAAAHEEEEEHAAAHAAAHEEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE....” she half moaned, half screamed, followed by ”WWWAAAAHAAHAAHAAHAWHAWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...“ and a sudden, desperate pleading,”NNNEEEAAOOOO...PLEASE DON’T TICKLE MY FEET!!! OH GAAWWD.....NNNNOT...MY...FEEHEEHEET!!!!” at which point she simply melted into a non stop song of crazed, manic laughter and squeals.
When he paused for a moment, Jill was in a full blown panic, yet she continued to giggle and her beautifully tapered feet with the slender toes, the high arches, and the delicately curved ankles continued to wiggle and squirm helplessly. The little irishman seemed to be pleased with this and his eyes followed the squirming feet closely as they struggled. “After about a month o’ this kinda noise, one night the room fell deathly silent.” he slowly wriggled his fingers over her toes, not even making actual contact but eliciting laughter all the same, ”We had given him his space, as is only common sense and courtesy when dealing with busy spirits...but this new silence cried out to be investigated.”
”When I opened the door the first time all those years ago the room was pretty much exactly as ya see it...this bed and the walls...all the furniture...the old carver had made it all in the space of thirty six weeks... after he had died of that heart attack.” Jill was paying close attention to his every word. She was mesmerized, even while her heart was pounding in her chest, by his deep storyteller’s voice, by the fear that he would soon be punctuating his strange tale with another attack on her ticklish feet.
She hoped she could delay the inevitable by starting a conversation. ”So...like...it was his ghost right? You’re saying that a dead guy made this goofy bed, and did all this trippy woodwork...”her words came out in a clipped hurry, she could hardly control her own breathing. ”So YEAH!” she bubbled,”I get it...YEAH. Hee hee, I get it. You like to bring gals here so you can..hee hee...show ’em your cool furniture and tell ’em spooky ghost stories...right??? I get it. Oh and you always treat the ladies to a quick little...quick...little...foot massage....okay...I get it...” she let out a heavy sigh, then in a tone thick with pleading, ”Will you let me go now...please...”
He smiled at her and waggled a fingernail accross the toes of her left foot, causing her to jerk in her bonds like a wildcat. ”The story needs ta be told, Miss...” he halted the finger action momentarily,” Ya see, you’ve made some choices in life that have done some harm. And The Carver, well, he lost his life on this green earth because ’o
them kinda decisions.” He said the words in a matter-of-fact way. He didn’t sound angry , in fact, he sounded gently amused. Then he started tracing little circles on the smooth, silky balls of her feet.
”HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE.............OOOOH...PLEEEEHEE...HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEZ....WHADEVERUWANTTTT....EEEEHEEHEEHEE..........PLEEEHEEHEEHEEZ....NOOOWWWWWAAAAAAAAAHHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAWW...” Jill had lost her self control...along with every shred of dignity...and ironically wished that she could cry while her body was being forced to laugh. ”PLEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEEZ.....NO MORE TICKLES.....PLEEHEEHEEHEEHEEZZ HEE HEE HEE HEE HEH...”
”This bed was an inspired piece,” he continued ”A real work of alchemic brilliance...and very comfy, is it not?” He danced his fingernails in a spidery pattern all over her struggling soles...she shrieked and even nodded in agreement as if trying to answer his question.
While the laughter that was drawn from her was becoming so intense that she found herself barely able to breathe in time to satisfy the demands on her enbattled nervous system by the relentless tickling.
“YESSSSSSS........CMMMMFFFFEEEEEHEE...HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEH!!!” she screeched, followed by a series of little schoolgirl giggles that were humiliating to let go of.”
He paused once more to speak without having to do it over her high pitched laughter. Picked his pipe up and pointed the stem at her. ”The bed itself was designed with gals like you in mind.” he smiled warmly. ” It was designed for maximum comfort and restraint...and it surely doesn’t lack for physical beauty.” He put another pinch of hemp into the bowl of the pipe, and struck a match on the sole of her right foot, which wrinkled as it tried to escape. ”But...in all fairness to The Carver, the bed was an invention with a far more impressive, practical use. Even more practical than a single,good night’s sleep.”
Jill was still listening to his every word, but she had entered a strange zone of thought where her body and mind were not her own and the physical sensations that kept her in the zone were growing stronger by the second:
She had always been ticklish, especially the soles of her feet...yet now she was so ticklish that laughter was forcing itself from her lungs when her tormentor merely PRETENDED to touch her feet and toes.
She had always enjoyed the caress of silky smooth nylons on her legs, hips, and feet, but now the fabric seemed to radiate an intensly sensual current...as if her entire lower body was being licked by a hundred skillfull tongues.
She had also enjoyed, for very long time, the hunt for victims: Baiting them with a casual show of leg or a dangling shoe...luring them to a room where she would secretly drug them and tie them, sometimes naked, to the bed in order to rob them blind...leaving them for the maid to untie, then reading newspaper accounts about some poor embarrassed slob who wound up with the wrong woman and lost his wallet and dignity, then had to be set free by the hired help. She had always enjoyed humiliating these men, but through the years she had also developed a sense...call it karma, fear of retribution, whatever...that some day she would pay...that all of the fun she was having would someday cost her dearly. That all of the humiliations she had visited on others would someday come back to haunt her.
Apparently they had, for in her present state of complete and utter helplessness, she had arrived at a level of humiliation that she could never have dreamed of. Her entire body ached for sexual release and that was the most humiliating cut of all...that her ticklishness was controlling her so completely...making her laugh like a crazed lunatic while at the same time making her skin cry out for more...her nipples and genitals were throbbing now, and the positioning of her body, stretched taught as if on a medieval torture rack, intensified her feelings of irrational lust.
She tried, again, to speak. ”Missster...Sir...please, no more foot tickles...that’s torture to me... it’s torture...and I never hurt anybody...” her voice was a pleading little teenage girl voice...full of real fear and yet laced with a mischeveous tone, the tone one would detect in an insincere apology. ”Please Sir...let me go...I promise ˆI’ll never drug another human being again as long as I live...just...please no more tickles...please.” and strangely, while her mouth was pleading her case for freedom, her pelvis was gyrating uncontrollably.
His lips curled up in a sinister grin and he stuck the end of the pipe between them. He took a drag of the sweet smoke, held it in, exhaled. ” Well, now, me pretty, ya haven’t heard the best part about this bed...the most important part of the story.” He walked to her and held the stem of the pipe to her lips. She knew what was expected of her and obediently took a pull.
As soon as the smoke filled her lungs, she thought she was over the edge. There was no way this was just simple pot. She tried to formulate a sentence, then found that she could not...her body was in a state of total relaxation, yet it felt as though she was becoming more ticklish by the second.
“Well, me pretty, this bed...the Carver’s gift to our fine hotel and tavern for puttin up with him all those noisy nights. He chuckled when he saw the puzzled look on her face, then laughed again as he returned to the end of the bed where her stocking feet were helplessly secured. ”If you would just read the words carved into the headboard above you...you might understand a wee bit more.” He gestured with the stem of his pipe at the phrase carved into the wood above her head...she didn’t remember it being there before, but she was able to only make out individual letters as they all appeared upside down to her. When her panicked brain finally re-assembled them, they spelled out an ominous phrase.
In Memory Of
Our Friend The Carver
She Feeds On Laughter
So Please Don’t Starve Her.
“Now then me pretty, do I call the police on ye?” he grinned as his fingers gently grasped her wriggling toes.
“Nnnn...no...don’t do that...mmmmm...no police...I’ll be a good girl...mmmmm....from now on...” she was comfortable, but by no means numb. She felt as if she were slowly sinking into a dream...a dream that seduced her into an obedient sleep full of womb-like protection and ticklish anticipation. She felt exhilerated and sedated at the same time.
His fingernails started a leisurely dance on the soles of both feet. She thought about fighting it for a fleeting instant, but the ridiculousness of that notion was bulldozed by her instantaneous laughter...she could not fight the tickling at all, and in her vulnerable condition, she laughed even harder when she tried not to laugh at all.
This tickle attack was the worst yet. His fingers worked faster and faster, scraping and caressing, stroking and probing, while her silken tootsies performed a tormented dance for his amusement, soles wrinkling and smoothing again, twitching toes clinching defensively, then spreading apart as if spring-loaded. ”WAHAAHHAAHAAHAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.....NYEAHAHAHAHAH...MMMMOREHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEHEHEHEHEH!!!!!”
The tickling intensified when the nail tips of one hand traced evil patterns all around her super-sensitive sole while he used the tip of his pipe stem to delicately stroke between her toes as far as the stretchy nylon would allow.
In one terrifying wave of laughter, as she felt her feet suffer the torment of the merciless electric tickle sensations while a tiny part of what was left of her rational mind told her that this was at least a hundred times worse than her sorority hazing tickle session all those years ago.
The pipe stem probed the small pad of flesh under her toes, ”OOOOHMY....GAAAWWD...NOT THAT!!!” at which point her whole body went into a spasm and her toes quivered like slender blades of grass in a hurricane wind. She made absolutely no attempt to fight the laughter now, preferring, instead, to simply try and laugh fast enough and hard enough to keep air flowing in and out of her aching lungs. ”HEEEEHEEEEEHEEEEEHEEEHEEHEEHEEHE!!!” she squealed. ”HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.....NO MORRRR....OH PLEEEEEEEZZZZHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEH!!!!!”
She now believed that the devil himself had tricked and trapped her, and she was terrified at the thought of her own private hell being an eternity of this terrible tickle torture. Even more terrifying was the fact that her will power had been hijacked and she could actually feel her body responding to the ticklish torment with a level of arousal that was hovering dangerously close to orgasm. While she brayed and laughed and whooped and howled her mind began to contemplate the most frightening of probabilities...that she would come and come hard...from nothing more than the sensation of being tickled on her stocking feet.
Without warning the grinning and guffawing little devil of an irishman changed stroke; with his palms facing the ceiling, he rested his fingernail tips on her hyper-sensitive arches...looking for all intents and purposes like a man trying to open and close a vertical sliding window as many times as possible at roughly twice the speed of sound. His hands moved so deftly, up and down and up...and her reaction of laughing spasms and helpless struggles were so jerky and bouncy...to an outsider watching the scene it might resemble a Benny Hill skit where the film is sped up and everyone moves in double time. The laugh track to THIS skit, however, was made by a single, hysterical voice:
“WWWWWOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEYYYAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHA......NNNNEEEYYYYAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.......PLEEEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEEEEZ SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAAAAWPPPPPPTTTTSSS...SSHESHSHESHSHESHHEEHEHEHEHEEEEHEEEEE!!!!!!” she fought to make words, but that was a totally lost cause, the only thing she could do was let the insideous rythm of the tickler’s sole stroking force her body and vocal cords to dance a helpless, squirming dance and sing a laughing, baby-voiced song...“CHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE..HEEHEEHEEHEE...HEEHEEHEE...”for what seemed like a murderous eternity to Jill.
To make matters even worse, he was getting vocal as well. In a high pitched voice that sounded like a cross between a cowboy’s drunken yodelling and an Alpha male wolf braying at the full moon, he cut loose with a chorus of the ancient tickler’s taunt from countless human childhoods: “COOCHIE COOCHIE COO...COOCHIE COOCHIE COOOOO....COOCHIE COOCHIE COOOOOOOOO...” which Jill was somehow able to hear through the din of her own panicked screams and ecstatic laughter. It actually made the tickling worse, if that were possible, as it triggered some deeply buried imprints from her earliest years in life...the subconcious of a ticklish little girl come back to haunt the grown-up, but still ticklish, woman.
Yet, amid all the violent, giggling hysteria, her pussy, her swollen nipples, indeed every inch of skin was aching for the kind of touch that was currently confined to her hose covered arches . If the climb to orgasm was a ten step process, then she had climbed to step nine and stayed there while her sanity found itself doing a ballet dance on a slippery slope.
She had no dreaming idea how long she had been laughing. Her lungs seemed to be working on their own, her feet wiggled and squirmed in an hysterical rythm, and her perception of her surroundings was clouded, at best. She bucked, gasped, giggled, and shrieked, yet the cruel foot tickling continued without letup. Throughout the torture, her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Directly above her, the ceiling fan slowly rotated. It’s blades, inlaid with celtic braids, sliced rythmically through the beams of orange light that shone down from the lamp above them, creating a gentle strobe effect that became a pulsing glow behind her eyelids. The room felt as though it was spinning slowly around her. Even during the times when her eyes were open, she was only dimly aware of the ceiling fan descending towards her.
Tears were now streaming down the sides of her pretty face, and her entire body was shiny with sweat. The scent of her perfume mixed with the sweet odor of the herbs they had smoked. Her laughter became longer, louder if possible. She could feel a sensual energy flood her body...from her tickled toes to her flushed cheeks. Jill knew she was mere seconds from an earth shattering orgasm.
The tickling stopped.
At first, she actually continued to laugh for a long moment. On the heels of this, the sigh she let out was a hybrid of sexual frustration and exhausted relief. Her head actually felt a bit more clear than it had while she was in hysterics, almost as if the laughter had burned some of the effects of the pot.
At last, she was able to speak, “Oh, please Mister...let me go. If you tickle my feet anymore I’ll die...I can’t take any more tickling...”
The little man took another pull from his pipe. “Well Missy...” his eyes narrowed and he smiled from ear to ear. “...That’d be a genuine shame. But if it’ll be of any comfort to ya at all, I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening.”
Jill let out another sigh, this one of pure relief. She wanted to ask him to let her up, but there was something cryptic in the way he had said ‘I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening’ that made her pause and hold her breath fearfully. When she looked up at the ceiling fan, a small gasp escaped her lips.
The fan had descended from the ceiling until it stopped only a few feet above her semi naked form. There it continued to gently rotate and chop the orange light beams.
Something did not look right to her at all. The celtic braids that were carved into the blades seemed to be shifting. At first very slowly, then they seemed to undulate like the coils and braids that had wrapped themselves around her wrists and ankles. To her growing horror, she realized that the braids, indeed the very wood the entire bed was made of, was kin to the haunted forest trees that were a staple in faery tales since time began. The trees that would come to life and wrap their prey in irresistable coils of living roots and branches.
She couldn’t even debate the possibility of it all. Her situation was terrifyingly clear: She had just been tricked, captured, and bound helplessly by a wooden bed that had somehow come to life and held her in place while her poor feet had been tickle-tortured by a seemingly vengeful leprechaen. And now, braided coils carved into the blades of a ceiling fan had come to snake-like life and were slithering towards her ticklish skin. Impossible??? She was in no position to think about any of this with any semblance of logic.
“In fact,” said the leprechaen named Shaymeless O’Lafferty,“ I’m afraid I have to leave you now, as I don’t want to make The Carver jealous. It IS his room after all, and when the bed doesn’t get what it needs, The Carver becomes a very grumpy ghost...as noisy as a banshee.”
His words were like an icing of terror on a cake made of horror. Jill shrieked at the top of her tired lungs and tried with all her depleted strength to slip free from her bonds. It was totally hopeless. “LET ME GO, LET ME GO, LET ME GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” she screamed. The laprachaen merely chuckled and happily shook his head.
Jill put her final ounce of resistance into her voice, an almost pitiable attempt at denying the frighteningly obvious, “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!” as if she could alter the course of her fate by repeating the mantra to herself.
The braided coils on the rotating blades had dropped towards her the way a constrictor would fall on it’s prey from the limb of a jungle tree. Each coil tapered into two flat strips of something that looked like leather. The tips of these strips were pointed and animated...they danced like leafy fingers while they spun round and round...coming closer and closer to shivering, helpless skin.
Shaymeless looked up at the spinning torture device with admiration. Both he and The Carver shared the same affliction; a powerful hunger for the forced laughter and frantic cries of female predators, along with a desire to see them lose all self control and dignity. While the leprachaen chose to titillate and tease while tickling his victims, driving them into fits of sexual frustration, The Carver, the spirit that possessed this room, and this bed, would take a different approach to augment the tickling.
Without warning, the slithering braids were all over Jill’s body now. Caressing, stroking, and fluttering across her helpless pink flesh. They were always in motion, like hummingbird wings, and as they spun round and round, and found unprotected skin, the realization dawned on her that these evil, magical, feathery fingers had total freedom to explore every ticklish inch of her. They even probed, tentacle like, sensitive places behind her knees and under her ass.
Her feet were not spared whatsoever, and the leathery, feathery tickling prongs found her toes and soles and sent her into silent, gasping laughing spasm that convulsed her body violently. The tops of her feet were targetted as well, there was no place for her tootsies to hide.
The little man took another pull from his pipe. ”Well Missy...“ his eyes narrowed and he smiled from ear to ear. ”...That’d be a genuine shame. But if it’ll be of any comfort to ya at all, I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening.”
Jill let out another sigh, this one of pure relief. She wanted to ask him to let her up, but there was something cryptic in the way he had said ‘I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening’ that made her pause and hold her breath fearfully. When she looked up at the ceiling fan, a small gasp escaped her lips.
The fan had descended from the ceiling until it stopped only a few feet above her semi naked form. There it continued to gently rotate and chop the orange light beams.
Something did not look right to her at all. The celtic braids that were carved into the blades seemed to be shifting. At first very slowly, then they seemed to undulate like the coils and braids that had wrapped themselves around her wrists and ankles. To her growing horror, she realized that the braids, indeed the very wood the entire bed was made of, was kin to the haunted forest trees that were a staple in faery tales since time began. The trees that would come to life and wrap their prey in irresistable coils of living roots and branches.
She couldn’t even debate the possibility of it all. Her situation was terrifyingly clear: She had just been tricked, captured, and bound helplessly by a wooden bed that had somehow come to life and held her in place while her poor feet had been tickle-tortured by a seemingly vengeful leprechaen. And now, braided coils carved into the blades of a ceiling fan had come to snake-like life and were slithering towards her ticklish skin. Impossible??? She was in no position to think about any of this with any semblance of logic.
”In fact,“ said the leprechaun named Shaymeless O’Lafferty,“ I’m afraid I have to leave you now, as I don’t want to make The Carver jealous. It IS his room after all, and when the bed doesn’t get what it needs, The Carver becomes a very grumpy ghost...as noisy as a banshee.”
His words were like an icing of terror on a cake made of horror. Jill shrieked at the top of her tired lungs and tried with all her depleted strength to slip free from her bonds. It was totally hopeless. ”LET ME GO, LET ME GO, LET ME GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!“ she screamed. The laprachaen merely chuckled and happily shook his head.
Jill put her final ounce of resistance into her voice, an almost pitiable attempt at denying the frighteningly obvious, ”This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!“ as if she could alter the course of her fate by repeating the mantra to herself.
The braided coils on the rotating blades had dropped towards her the way a constrictor would fall on it’s prey from the limb of a jungle tree. Each coil tapered into two flat strips of something that looked like leather. The tips of these strips were pointed and animated...they danced like leafy fingers while they spun round and round...coming closer and closer to shivering, helpless skin.
Shaymeless looked up at the spinning torture device with admiration. Both he and The Carver shared the same affliction; a powerful hunger for the forced laughter and frantic cries of female predators, along with a desire to see them lose all self control and dignity. While the leprechaun chose to titillate and tease while tickling his victims, driving them into fits of sexual frustration, The Carver, the spirit that possessed this room, and this bed, would take a different approach to augment the tickling.
Without warning, the slithering braids were all over Jill’s body now. Caressing, stroking, and fluttering across her helpless pink flesh. They were always in motion, like hummingbird wings, and as they spun round and round, and found unprotected skin, the realization dawned on her that these evil, magical, feathery fingers had total freedom to explore every ticklish inch of her. They even probed, tentacle like, sensitive places behind her knees and under her ass.
Her feet were not spared whatsoever, and the leathery, feathery tickling prongs found her toes and soles and sent her into silent, gasping laughing spasm that convulsed her body violently.
O’Lafferty watched the scene approvingly. The squealing girl looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes as the magical tapered tips caressed her ticklish mound through her silk panties, while another pair of tips did the same to her nipples. The tickling was totally without any fixed pattern and her brain had no chance whatsoever to stave off the gentle assault, or to predict where the next tickle would occur. Just as she was trying to form a sentence of begging and pleading, she was overcome with a simultanious avalanch of tickling sensations and powerful orgasm.
The little leprechaun with the huge forearms put the pipe back between his teeth and opened the door to leave. He couldn’t resist one last taunt.“Well, me pretty, it HAS been FUN...But it IS getting late and I don’t want to miss last call.”
“WAAAAAIIIIIIT.....HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.....WHAT IZZZ HAPPENING TO MEEEEEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE?????????” Another orgasm caused her laughter to morph into a moan of delight, followed by more insane laughter as the magical tickling bed and fan stole every nerve ending in her body and subjected them to forced euphoria. The endorphines in her brain were overloading her senses, and she was reduced to laughing and coming and laughing and coming, and laughing even harder because the orgasms made her even more ticklish...and coming because the tickling was everywhere and it wouldn’t stop forcing her to come or to laugh.
Before closing the door behind him, he took a final look at his pretty, giggling, cooing victim. “Don’t worry about a thing, little missy, The bed USUALLY calls it quits by dawn...I’ll be sure to have the maid come in the morning...” he chuckled at this thought, adding, “She’s ALWAYS up for a good-morning TICKLE SESSION. Good night me pretty, and be sure, as you travel life’s rocky road, to keep a little laughter in yer life.” He closed and locked the door.
Jill laughed.
(See pic in art section)
Enjoy
The little man started to gently tug at her other shoe. He went on, ”This enchantress, of course, would have no way o’ knowin that the old carver gave up the ghost while he lay trussed on the bed like a spring lamb, for she had long since abandoned him, and disappeared into the night...” he gave a final, firm tug on her shoe and it dropped to the floor. Now both her feet were totally vulnerable to anything he chose to do to her. She, of course, thought she knew what was in store, and it was making her more afraid than she had been of anything since the evil babysitter had chased her so long ago.
”His ghost, of course, the one he gave up in this very room so long ago...” he gently stroked the toes of both of her silky feet with his thick, powerful fingers...”Stayed around the hotel for a bit... stayed in this room mostly. Made all kinds o’ racket in the wee hours, carving, sawing, chiselling and chopping...” Through the sheer nylon she felt the hard, unforgiving crescents of his thumbnails and the short but tapered edges of the other eight fingers that gently but firmly pried her little toes apart in their shadowy wrappings.
Jill’s reaction was sudden and dramatic...up until now she had been fighting to hold little giggles in check...but this...her toes being caressed in such a sinister, conniving way, she was totally unprepared for...and a huge guffaw was ripped from her throat.... such a high pitch that Jill found to her own embarrassment that it was her own little girl voice...the one she used when she was trying to be cute, trying to be funny...it was totally humiliating to have it forced out of her against her will this way...worse still, he was slowly stroking the soles of both feet with his index fingers... and a booming, hysterical series of giggles and shrieks, as if she had been sucking helium, burst out from her with all the auditory force of a jackhammer on frozen concrete.
“HEEEEYAAAAHEEEEEHAAAHAAAHEEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE....” she half moaned, half screamed, followed by ”WWWAAAAHAAHAAHAAHAWHAWHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...“ and a sudden, desperate pleading,”NNNEEEAAOOOO...PLEASE DON’T TICKLE MY FEET!!! OH GAAWWD.....NNNNOT...MY...FEEHEEHEET!!!!” at which point she simply melted into a non stop song of crazed, manic laughter and squeals.
When he paused for a moment, Jill was in a full blown panic, yet she continued to giggle and her beautifully tapered feet with the slender toes, the high arches, and the delicately curved ankles continued to wiggle and squirm helplessly. The little irishman seemed to be pleased with this and his eyes followed the squirming feet closely as they struggled. “After about a month o’ this kinda noise, one night the room fell deathly silent.” he slowly wriggled his fingers over her toes, not even making actual contact but eliciting laughter all the same, ”We had given him his space, as is only common sense and courtesy when dealing with busy spirits...but this new silence cried out to be investigated.”
”When I opened the door the first time all those years ago the room was pretty much exactly as ya see it...this bed and the walls...all the furniture...the old carver had made it all in the space of thirty six weeks... after he had died of that heart attack.” Jill was paying close attention to his every word. She was mesmerized, even while her heart was pounding in her chest, by his deep storyteller’s voice, by the fear that he would soon be punctuating his strange tale with another attack on her ticklish feet.
She hoped she could delay the inevitable by starting a conversation. ”So...like...it was his ghost right? You’re saying that a dead guy made this goofy bed, and did all this trippy woodwork...”her words came out in a clipped hurry, she could hardly control her own breathing. ”So YEAH!” she bubbled,”I get it...YEAH. Hee hee, I get it. You like to bring gals here so you can..hee hee...show ’em your cool furniture and tell ’em spooky ghost stories...right??? I get it. Oh and you always treat the ladies to a quick little...quick...little...foot massage....okay...I get it...” she let out a heavy sigh, then in a tone thick with pleading, ”Will you let me go now...please...”
He smiled at her and waggled a fingernail accross the toes of her left foot, causing her to jerk in her bonds like a wildcat. ”The story needs ta be told, Miss...” he halted the finger action momentarily,” Ya see, you’ve made some choices in life that have done some harm. And The Carver, well, he lost his life on this green earth because ’o
them kinda decisions.” He said the words in a matter-of-fact way. He didn’t sound angry , in fact, he sounded gently amused. Then he started tracing little circles on the smooth, silky balls of her feet.
”HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE.............OOOOH...PLEEEEHEE...HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEZ....WHADEVERUWANTTTT....EEEEHEEHEEHEE..........PLEEEHEEHEEHEEZ....NOOOWWWWWAAAAAAAAAHHAAHAAHAAHAAHAAHAWW...” Jill had lost her self control...along with every shred of dignity...and ironically wished that she could cry while her body was being forced to laugh. ”PLEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEEZ.....NO MORE TICKLES.....PLEEHEEHEEHEEHEEZZ HEE HEE HEE HEE HEH...”
”This bed was an inspired piece,” he continued ”A real work of alchemic brilliance...and very comfy, is it not?” He danced his fingernails in a spidery pattern all over her struggling soles...she shrieked and even nodded in agreement as if trying to answer his question.
While the laughter that was drawn from her was becoming so intense that she found herself barely able to breathe in time to satisfy the demands on her enbattled nervous system by the relentless tickling.
“YESSSSSSS........CMMMMFFFFEEEEEHEE...HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEH!!!” she screeched, followed by a series of little schoolgirl giggles that were humiliating to let go of.”
He paused once more to speak without having to do it over her high pitched laughter. Picked his pipe up and pointed the stem at her. ”The bed itself was designed with gals like you in mind.” he smiled warmly. ” It was designed for maximum comfort and restraint...and it surely doesn’t lack for physical beauty.” He put another pinch of hemp into the bowl of the pipe, and struck a match on the sole of her right foot, which wrinkled as it tried to escape. ”But...in all fairness to The Carver, the bed was an invention with a far more impressive, practical use. Even more practical than a single,good night’s sleep.”
Jill was still listening to his every word, but she had entered a strange zone of thought where her body and mind were not her own and the physical sensations that kept her in the zone were growing stronger by the second:
She had always been ticklish, especially the soles of her feet...yet now she was so ticklish that laughter was forcing itself from her lungs when her tormentor merely PRETENDED to touch her feet and toes.
She had always enjoyed the caress of silky smooth nylons on her legs, hips, and feet, but now the fabric seemed to radiate an intensly sensual current...as if her entire lower body was being licked by a hundred skillfull tongues.
She had also enjoyed, for very long time, the hunt for victims: Baiting them with a casual show of leg or a dangling shoe...luring them to a room where she would secretly drug them and tie them, sometimes naked, to the bed in order to rob them blind...leaving them for the maid to untie, then reading newspaper accounts about some poor embarrassed slob who wound up with the wrong woman and lost his wallet and dignity, then had to be set free by the hired help. She had always enjoyed humiliating these men, but through the years she had also developed a sense...call it karma, fear of retribution, whatever...that some day she would pay...that all of the fun she was having would someday cost her dearly. That all of the humiliations she had visited on others would someday come back to haunt her.
Apparently they had, for in her present state of complete and utter helplessness, she had arrived at a level of humiliation that she could never have dreamed of. Her entire body ached for sexual release and that was the most humiliating cut of all...that her ticklishness was controlling her so completely...making her laugh like a crazed lunatic while at the same time making her skin cry out for more...her nipples and genitals were throbbing now, and the positioning of her body, stretched taught as if on a medieval torture rack, intensified her feelings of irrational lust.
She tried, again, to speak. ”Missster...Sir...please, no more foot tickles...that’s torture to me... it’s torture...and I never hurt anybody...” her voice was a pleading little teenage girl voice...full of real fear and yet laced with a mischeveous tone, the tone one would detect in an insincere apology. ”Please Sir...let me go...I promise ˆI’ll never drug another human being again as long as I live...just...please no more tickles...please.” and strangely, while her mouth was pleading her case for freedom, her pelvis was gyrating uncontrollably.
His lips curled up in a sinister grin and he stuck the end of the pipe between them. He took a drag of the sweet smoke, held it in, exhaled. ” Well, now, me pretty, ya haven’t heard the best part about this bed...the most important part of the story.” He walked to her and held the stem of the pipe to her lips. She knew what was expected of her and obediently took a pull.
As soon as the smoke filled her lungs, she thought she was over the edge. There was no way this was just simple pot. She tried to formulate a sentence, then found that she could not...her body was in a state of total relaxation, yet it felt as though she was becoming more ticklish by the second.
“Well, me pretty, this bed...the Carver’s gift to our fine hotel and tavern for puttin up with him all those noisy nights. He chuckled when he saw the puzzled look on her face, then laughed again as he returned to the end of the bed where her stocking feet were helplessly secured. ”If you would just read the words carved into the headboard above you...you might understand a wee bit more.” He gestured with the stem of his pipe at the phrase carved into the wood above her head...she didn’t remember it being there before, but she was able to only make out individual letters as they all appeared upside down to her. When her panicked brain finally re-assembled them, they spelled out an ominous phrase.
In Memory Of
Our Friend The Carver
She Feeds On Laughter
So Please Don’t Starve Her.
“Now then me pretty, do I call the police on ye?” he grinned as his fingers gently grasped her wriggling toes.
“Nnnn...no...don’t do that...mmmmm...no police...I’ll be a good girl...mmmmm....from now on...” she was comfortable, but by no means numb. She felt as if she were slowly sinking into a dream...a dream that seduced her into an obedient sleep full of womb-like protection and ticklish anticipation. She felt exhilerated and sedated at the same time.
His fingernails started a leisurely dance on the soles of both feet. She thought about fighting it for a fleeting instant, but the ridiculousness of that notion was bulldozed by her instantaneous laughter...she could not fight the tickling at all, and in her vulnerable condition, she laughed even harder when she tried not to laugh at all.
This tickle attack was the worst yet. His fingers worked faster and faster, scraping and caressing, stroking and probing, while her silken tootsies performed a tormented dance for his amusement, soles wrinkling and smoothing again, twitching toes clinching defensively, then spreading apart as if spring-loaded. ”WAHAAHHAAHAAHAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.....NYEAHAHAHAHAH...MMMMOREHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEHEHEHEHEH!!!!!”
The tickling intensified when the nail tips of one hand traced evil patterns all around her super-sensitive sole while he used the tip of his pipe stem to delicately stroke between her toes as far as the stretchy nylon would allow.
In one terrifying wave of laughter, as she felt her feet suffer the torment of the merciless electric tickle sensations while a tiny part of what was left of her rational mind told her that this was at least a hundred times worse than her sorority hazing tickle session all those years ago.
The pipe stem probed the small pad of flesh under her toes, ”OOOOHMY....GAAAWWD...NOT THAT!!!” at which point her whole body went into a spasm and her toes quivered like slender blades of grass in a hurricane wind. She made absolutely no attempt to fight the laughter now, preferring, instead, to simply try and laugh fast enough and hard enough to keep air flowing in and out of her aching lungs. ”HEEEEHEEEEEHEEEEEHEEEHEEHEEHEEHE!!!” she squealed. ”HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.....NO MORRRR....OH PLEEEEEEEZZZZHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEH!!!!!”
She now believed that the devil himself had tricked and trapped her, and she was terrified at the thought of her own private hell being an eternity of this terrible tickle torture. Even more terrifying was the fact that her will power had been hijacked and she could actually feel her body responding to the ticklish torment with a level of arousal that was hovering dangerously close to orgasm. While she brayed and laughed and whooped and howled her mind began to contemplate the most frightening of probabilities...that she would come and come hard...from nothing more than the sensation of being tickled on her stocking feet.
Without warning the grinning and guffawing little devil of an irishman changed stroke; with his palms facing the ceiling, he rested his fingernail tips on her hyper-sensitive arches...looking for all intents and purposes like a man trying to open and close a vertical sliding window as many times as possible at roughly twice the speed of sound. His hands moved so deftly, up and down and up...and her reaction of laughing spasms and helpless struggles were so jerky and bouncy...to an outsider watching the scene it might resemble a Benny Hill skit where the film is sped up and everyone moves in double time. The laugh track to THIS skit, however, was made by a single, hysterical voice:
“WWWWWOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEYYYAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHA......NNNNEEEYYYYAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.......PLEEEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEEEEZ SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAAAAWPPPPPPTTTTSSS...SSHESHSHESHSHESHHEEHEHEHEHEEEEHEEEEE!!!!!!” she fought to make words, but that was a totally lost cause, the only thing she could do was let the insideous rythm of the tickler’s sole stroking force her body and vocal cords to dance a helpless, squirming dance and sing a laughing, baby-voiced song...“CHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE..HEEHEEHEEHEE...HEEHEEHEE...”for what seemed like a murderous eternity to Jill.
To make matters even worse, he was getting vocal as well. In a high pitched voice that sounded like a cross between a cowboy’s drunken yodelling and an Alpha male wolf braying at the full moon, he cut loose with a chorus of the ancient tickler’s taunt from countless human childhoods: “COOCHIE COOCHIE COO...COOCHIE COOCHIE COOOOO....COOCHIE COOCHIE COOOOOOOOO...” which Jill was somehow able to hear through the din of her own panicked screams and ecstatic laughter. It actually made the tickling worse, if that were possible, as it triggered some deeply buried imprints from her earliest years in life...the subconcious of a ticklish little girl come back to haunt the grown-up, but still ticklish, woman.
Yet, amid all the violent, giggling hysteria, her pussy, her swollen nipples, indeed every inch of skin was aching for the kind of touch that was currently confined to her hose covered arches . If the climb to orgasm was a ten step process, then she had climbed to step nine and stayed there while her sanity found itself doing a ballet dance on a slippery slope.
She had no dreaming idea how long she had been laughing. Her lungs seemed to be working on their own, her feet wiggled and squirmed in an hysterical rythm, and her perception of her surroundings was clouded, at best. She bucked, gasped, giggled, and shrieked, yet the cruel foot tickling continued without letup. Throughout the torture, her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Directly above her, the ceiling fan slowly rotated. It’s blades, inlaid with celtic braids, sliced rythmically through the beams of orange light that shone down from the lamp above them, creating a gentle strobe effect that became a pulsing glow behind her eyelids. The room felt as though it was spinning slowly around her. Even during the times when her eyes were open, she was only dimly aware of the ceiling fan descending towards her.
Tears were now streaming down the sides of her pretty face, and her entire body was shiny with sweat. The scent of her perfume mixed with the sweet odor of the herbs they had smoked. Her laughter became longer, louder if possible. She could feel a sensual energy flood her body...from her tickled toes to her flushed cheeks. Jill knew she was mere seconds from an earth shattering orgasm.
The tickling stopped.
At first, she actually continued to laugh for a long moment. On the heels of this, the sigh she let out was a hybrid of sexual frustration and exhausted relief. Her head actually felt a bit more clear than it had while she was in hysterics, almost as if the laughter had burned some of the effects of the pot.
At last, she was able to speak, “Oh, please Mister...let me go. If you tickle my feet anymore I’ll die...I can’t take any more tickling...”
The little man took another pull from his pipe. “Well Missy...” his eyes narrowed and he smiled from ear to ear. “...That’d be a genuine shame. But if it’ll be of any comfort to ya at all, I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening.”
Jill let out another sigh, this one of pure relief. She wanted to ask him to let her up, but there was something cryptic in the way he had said ‘I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening’ that made her pause and hold her breath fearfully. When she looked up at the ceiling fan, a small gasp escaped her lips.
The fan had descended from the ceiling until it stopped only a few feet above her semi naked form. There it continued to gently rotate and chop the orange light beams.
Something did not look right to her at all. The celtic braids that were carved into the blades seemed to be shifting. At first very slowly, then they seemed to undulate like the coils and braids that had wrapped themselves around her wrists and ankles. To her growing horror, she realized that the braids, indeed the very wood the entire bed was made of, was kin to the haunted forest trees that were a staple in faery tales since time began. The trees that would come to life and wrap their prey in irresistable coils of living roots and branches.
She couldn’t even debate the possibility of it all. Her situation was terrifyingly clear: She had just been tricked, captured, and bound helplessly by a wooden bed that had somehow come to life and held her in place while her poor feet had been tickle-tortured by a seemingly vengeful leprechaen. And now, braided coils carved into the blades of a ceiling fan had come to snake-like life and were slithering towards her ticklish skin. Impossible??? She was in no position to think about any of this with any semblance of logic.
“In fact,” said the leprechaen named Shaymeless O’Lafferty,“ I’m afraid I have to leave you now, as I don’t want to make The Carver jealous. It IS his room after all, and when the bed doesn’t get what it needs, The Carver becomes a very grumpy ghost...as noisy as a banshee.”
His words were like an icing of terror on a cake made of horror. Jill shrieked at the top of her tired lungs and tried with all her depleted strength to slip free from her bonds. It was totally hopeless. “LET ME GO, LET ME GO, LET ME GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” she screamed. The laprachaen merely chuckled and happily shook his head.
Jill put her final ounce of resistance into her voice, an almost pitiable attempt at denying the frighteningly obvious, “This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!” as if she could alter the course of her fate by repeating the mantra to herself.
The braided coils on the rotating blades had dropped towards her the way a constrictor would fall on it’s prey from the limb of a jungle tree. Each coil tapered into two flat strips of something that looked like leather. The tips of these strips were pointed and animated...they danced like leafy fingers while they spun round and round...coming closer and closer to shivering, helpless skin.
Shaymeless looked up at the spinning torture device with admiration. Both he and The Carver shared the same affliction; a powerful hunger for the forced laughter and frantic cries of female predators, along with a desire to see them lose all self control and dignity. While the leprachaen chose to titillate and tease while tickling his victims, driving them into fits of sexual frustration, The Carver, the spirit that possessed this room, and this bed, would take a different approach to augment the tickling.
Without warning, the slithering braids were all over Jill’s body now. Caressing, stroking, and fluttering across her helpless pink flesh. They were always in motion, like hummingbird wings, and as they spun round and round, and found unprotected skin, the realization dawned on her that these evil, magical, feathery fingers had total freedom to explore every ticklish inch of her. They even probed, tentacle like, sensitive places behind her knees and under her ass.
Her feet were not spared whatsoever, and the leathery, feathery tickling prongs found her toes and soles and sent her into silent, gasping laughing spasm that convulsed her body violently. The tops of her feet were targetted as well, there was no place for her tootsies to hide.
The little man took another pull from his pipe. ”Well Missy...“ his eyes narrowed and he smiled from ear to ear. ”...That’d be a genuine shame. But if it’ll be of any comfort to ya at all, I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening.”
Jill let out another sigh, this one of pure relief. She wanted to ask him to let her up, but there was something cryptic in the way he had said ‘I won’t be ticklin’ yer pretty little tootsies any more this evening’ that made her pause and hold her breath fearfully. When she looked up at the ceiling fan, a small gasp escaped her lips.
The fan had descended from the ceiling until it stopped only a few feet above her semi naked form. There it continued to gently rotate and chop the orange light beams.
Something did not look right to her at all. The celtic braids that were carved into the blades seemed to be shifting. At first very slowly, then they seemed to undulate like the coils and braids that had wrapped themselves around her wrists and ankles. To her growing horror, she realized that the braids, indeed the very wood the entire bed was made of, was kin to the haunted forest trees that were a staple in faery tales since time began. The trees that would come to life and wrap their prey in irresistable coils of living roots and branches.
She couldn’t even debate the possibility of it all. Her situation was terrifyingly clear: She had just been tricked, captured, and bound helplessly by a wooden bed that had somehow come to life and held her in place while her poor feet had been tickle-tortured by a seemingly vengeful leprechaen. And now, braided coils carved into the blades of a ceiling fan had come to snake-like life and were slithering towards her ticklish skin. Impossible??? She was in no position to think about any of this with any semblance of logic.
”In fact,“ said the leprechaun named Shaymeless O’Lafferty,“ I’m afraid I have to leave you now, as I don’t want to make The Carver jealous. It IS his room after all, and when the bed doesn’t get what it needs, The Carver becomes a very grumpy ghost...as noisy as a banshee.”
His words were like an icing of terror on a cake made of horror. Jill shrieked at the top of her tired lungs and tried with all her depleted strength to slip free from her bonds. It was totally hopeless. ”LET ME GO, LET ME GO, LET ME GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!“ she screamed. The laprachaen merely chuckled and happily shook his head.
Jill put her final ounce of resistance into her voice, an almost pitiable attempt at denying the frighteningly obvious, ”This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!!“ as if she could alter the course of her fate by repeating the mantra to herself.
The braided coils on the rotating blades had dropped towards her the way a constrictor would fall on it’s prey from the limb of a jungle tree. Each coil tapered into two flat strips of something that looked like leather. The tips of these strips were pointed and animated...they danced like leafy fingers while they spun round and round...coming closer and closer to shivering, helpless skin.
Shaymeless looked up at the spinning torture device with admiration. Both he and The Carver shared the same affliction; a powerful hunger for the forced laughter and frantic cries of female predators, along with a desire to see them lose all self control and dignity. While the leprechaun chose to titillate and tease while tickling his victims, driving them into fits of sexual frustration, The Carver, the spirit that possessed this room, and this bed, would take a different approach to augment the tickling.
Without warning, the slithering braids were all over Jill’s body now. Caressing, stroking, and fluttering across her helpless pink flesh. They were always in motion, like hummingbird wings, and as they spun round and round, and found unprotected skin, the realization dawned on her that these evil, magical, feathery fingers had total freedom to explore every ticklish inch of her. They even probed, tentacle like, sensitive places behind her knees and under her ass.
Her feet were not spared whatsoever, and the leathery, feathery tickling prongs found her toes and soles and sent her into silent, gasping laughing spasm that convulsed her body violently.
O’Lafferty watched the scene approvingly. The squealing girl looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes as the magical tapered tips caressed her ticklish mound through her silk panties, while another pair of tips did the same to her nipples. The tickling was totally without any fixed pattern and her brain had no chance whatsoever to stave off the gentle assault, or to predict where the next tickle would occur. Just as she was trying to form a sentence of begging and pleading, she was overcome with a simultanious avalanch of tickling sensations and powerful orgasm.
The little leprechaun with the huge forearms put the pipe back between his teeth and opened the door to leave. He couldn’t resist one last taunt.“Well, me pretty, it HAS been FUN...But it IS getting late and I don’t want to miss last call.”
“WAAAAAIIIIIIT.....HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.....WHAT IZZZ HAPPENING TO MEEEEEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE?????????” Another orgasm caused her laughter to morph into a moan of delight, followed by more insane laughter as the magical tickling bed and fan stole every nerve ending in her body and subjected them to forced euphoria. The endorphines in her brain were overloading her senses, and she was reduced to laughing and coming and laughing and coming, and laughing even harder because the orgasms made her even more ticklish...and coming because the tickling was everywhere and it wouldn’t stop forcing her to come or to laugh.
Before closing the door behind him, he took a final look at his pretty, giggling, cooing victim. “Don’t worry about a thing, little missy, The bed USUALLY calls it quits by dawn...I’ll be sure to have the maid come in the morning...” he chuckled at this thought, adding, “She’s ALWAYS up for a good-morning TICKLE SESSION. Good night me pretty, and be sure, as you travel life’s rocky road, to keep a little laughter in yer life.” He closed and locked the door.
Jill laughed.
