Spillone
1st Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2001
- Messages
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This is another story I got on the web. The author is unknown. I hope you like it!
As soon as I came to, I knew I was in trouble. Just how ticklish a situation I was in I could never have guessed.
My ordeal began the Saturday morning of Homecoming Weekend. The girls in my sorority, a mixed group of gals who liked to play hard and party twice as hard, began drinking champagne over breakfast to begin the day in a festive mood. By the time the big game was over, I’d long lost count of the number of mimosas and assorted other liquors I’d consumed. All I knew was the only way I got back to the house that afternoon was to be carried, or dragged as I imagine it actually happened. The last thing I remember was passing out on a couch in the parlor, a large recreational room in the basement of our 70-year old house where the heart of the party always beat.
It was when I came to that the real trouble began.
Looking back on those days, I suppose I was a brash young sister, cocky and pretty full of myself. Even more annoying was my habit of playing practical jokes. Pretty much every fellow sister had been the butt of one really good one by my senior year, and I guess they decided it was payback time. They got me back so thoroughly fiendishly, in fact, that it was years before I ever even considered playing another practical joke.
When I came to, I was no longer on the couch. In an elaborate and bizarre twist of events, I awoke affixed to a door leading from the party room to a back service hallway. They’d actually cut five holes in the door through which all of my appendages-feet, hands and head-were protruding. On each of my wrists and ankles they attached thick, padded leather cuffs with metal studs protruding, preventing me from pulling my hands or feet back through the small holes. A similar cuff was placed around my neck on both sides of the door, preventing my head from slipping out either. The holes for my feet were about three feet off the floor, the holes for my wrists slightly higher than the one for my head which was about two-thirds from the top of the door. My butt rested on a bar stool so that my body formed a slight “C” with the ends protruding through one side, the rest on the other side. Furthermore, my shoes and nylons had been removed and from the cold draft I felt on my stomach and the backs of my legs, pretty much all of the rest of my clothing had been removed. The only thing I knew for sure I still had on was my bra and underwear, although I would soon come to find that to be of little protection for my terribly exposed and vulnerable body.
While waking to find myself in modern day stocks was startling enough, what really scared the shit out of me was what had been painted on the door. The wall of the party room opposite me was covered in large mirrors offering an ample view of my precarious situation. And what I quickly noticed was that the door had been covered in brown paper and graffitied with markers. In large, bold letters at the top, “It’s Wendy’s Turn to Play the Fool” was written with “She Who Laughs Last Laughs HARDEST!” written below my head. And between my bare feet they’d written “Please Tickle Us!” in large purple letters.
I gulped hard and could feel sweat begin to form under the cuff around my neck. They had truly found my greatest weakness and were planning to fully exploit it. You see, I am agonizingly ticklish! A lone feather scares me about as much as a loaded gun. My heart began pounding so loudly, my head pulsed. “Shit, these bitches are crazy! I’ve got to get loose, somehow,” I yelled silently to myself. But of course, no matter how hard I yanked, my feet and ankles were helplessly stuck.
I stared helplessly at the sight before me, a feeling of resignation sweeping over me. They were thorough in their graffiti, providing recommendations (“Don’t Forget to Brush Between Her Toes”), remembrances of purpose (“This Will Teach Her to Play Practical Jokes!”) and even templates (a big bull's-eye drawn in the center of one foot, a blank tic-tac-toe board on the other). And worse, they’d tacked instruments on strings to aid the lynch mob in their attack (a feather, razor point felt tip, small paint brush and tooth brush). I gulped imagining those bristles scraping up and down my poor soles.
My self pity was interrupted by the sound of someone coming down the stairs. My heart began to race wondering if the entire fraternity was about to spring to action. At first I was relieved to see my boyfriend, Jake, a rugby player. “Shit, get me out of here, honey” I pleaded anxiously, hoping he’d bail me out and save me from certain hell.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” he asked incredulously. Walking up to me and surveying the completely ludicrous predicament I was in, he launched into a rather hideous, gutful of laughter at my predicament. It was at that very moment, as his deep throated laughter rang in my ears, that it suddenly hit me that he was probably the only one who knew how truly ticklish I was, learned from hapless games of wrestling when we were drunk and fooling around. During some of those matches, I was barefoot and he quickly seized the opportunity winning virtually every time as I was incapacitated from the intense sensations I experience whenever someone tickles my feet.
“Jake!” I barked, in a commanding voice meant to snap him to reality and know I meant business and wasn’t going to be taken advantage of. But there was an unforgettable glint in his eye, a certain mischievous smile forming on his face that made my heart sink. “Please?” I whimpered, my voice changing to one of pleading for decency from my captor.
“Gee, sweetheart,” he mocked insincerely, “you seem to be in quite a...er, um...TICKLISH...situation here...” With that I knew it was all over. His hand reached down toward my bare foot just waiting for him.
“Oh come on!” I cried out in desperation, bouncing on the stool to try to wrench my feet to freedom. “Shit, don’t do this...please! You know how ticklish I am!”
I was suddenly reminded of an old Flintstone episode where Fred was arguing with his neighbor over the location of a fence when the neighbor picked the fence up and slammed it down on Fred’s ankles. Naturally, it was made of stone and trapped his always-bare feet on the neighbor’s side. At first, Fred was real pissed, yelling at the neighbor. But then, in a truly stupid move, he paused when he realized just how vulnerable he was (turns out Fred is quite ticklish like me!). Then he asked the neighbor sheepishly “Gee, you wouldn’t tickle my feet, would you?” Well, that was all the encouragement his fiendish neighbor needed and the next thing Fred knew, finger nails were dancing up and down Fred’s sensitive feet, while he laughed wildly and yanked until he freed his feet.
Suddenly I felt as stupid as Fred, suggesting a torture I feared more than anything. And unfortunately, I didn’t have Fred’s Neanderthal strength to release my feet. (Why couldn’t I have blurted out “don’t force feed me chocolate!” or some other more bearable torture?)
“Yeah, I know,” Ted cajoled, “that’s why I suggested it!” I didn’t have time to think about the fact that my boyfriend just admitted this whole thing was his idea, because his finger nails made contact with my ultra sensitive foot and I lost it, crying out with laughter and yanking on my ankles trying desperately to free my tortured soles. I couldn’t believe it when, just like Fred Flintstone’s goon neighbor did to him, Ted punctuated his blow by taunting me with a “kitchy, kitchy, koo!” He seemed to delight in my misery, his finger nails dancing merrily up and down my sole while I blubbered what profanities I could manage between laughs. Once his other hand joined the action with my other foot, I really lost it laughing louder and harder than I’d ever laughed in my life.
Which only served to alert the others in the house that the fun was in the basement! The next thing I knew I was facing a dozen sorority sisters smiling as they watched Ted reduce me to a giggling, ranting, begging idiot. And thus began the most intense, unbelievably unbearable evening I’ve ever endured. You have no idea how ticklish you are until you’re subjected to hours of relentless, uncontrolled exploration of your most sensitive and vulnerable body parts by about twenty drunk college kids all while completely helpless to stop or even minimize their assault.
More than 200 fingers scraped, poked, danced, scratched and stroked my poor soles. The feather and brushes proved quite effective in drawing a reaction from me as well, their barbs gliding endlessly up, down and around my bare feet, no single centimeter of skin escaping unscathed. I had never had the displeasure of being tickled with a feather in the cracks and crevices between my toes until that night, but many party guests found my reaction to it most delightful. Throughout the night, there were numerous games of tic-tac-toe played with the razor point pin on the board drawn on my sole-I don't know which were worse, X’s or O’s! And when the board was written on until unplayable, some clever sole would retrieve some warm water and soap, scrubbing my foot clean (a couple of times with the toothbrush!) and then redrawing the board on my warmed and softened foot.
I’ve never cried as much as I did that night, driven to tears by their endless, merciless attacks upon my poor body. It didn’t take someone long to figure out that if I am so ticklish on my feet, then the rest of my body would probably be quite sensitive as well (they were right!). I about jumped out of my skin when my ribs were suddenly, unexpectedly attacked by a pair of hands poking and squeezing them. Someone had trekked through the back hall and discovered my completely unprotected torso practically begging for punishment. I soon deduced it was one of my sisters based on the intense sensations I felt from long and sharp finger nails scraping all over my skin. She was ruthless, thoroughly exploring and discovering every darned ticklish spot I had. My stomach, ribs, armpits, arms, neck, even my nipples and back became sensitized to her every touch.
I giggled and laughed uncontrollably helpless to stop her torment. Unfortunately, everyone had taken momentary break from tickling my feet and it didn’t take them long to realize something was amiss-after all, I was giggling and laughing hysterically yet no one was even touching me! Soon, several more had joined the mystery woman behind me, all of them joining together to torture my torso. Meanwhile, the rest of the group had resumed their assault on my poor, helpless feet. It was absolutely the most intense, unbearable, frustrating moments of my life.
As soon as I came to, I knew I was in trouble. Just how ticklish a situation I was in I could never have guessed.
My ordeal began the Saturday morning of Homecoming Weekend. The girls in my sorority, a mixed group of gals who liked to play hard and party twice as hard, began drinking champagne over breakfast to begin the day in a festive mood. By the time the big game was over, I’d long lost count of the number of mimosas and assorted other liquors I’d consumed. All I knew was the only way I got back to the house that afternoon was to be carried, or dragged as I imagine it actually happened. The last thing I remember was passing out on a couch in the parlor, a large recreational room in the basement of our 70-year old house where the heart of the party always beat.
It was when I came to that the real trouble began.
Looking back on those days, I suppose I was a brash young sister, cocky and pretty full of myself. Even more annoying was my habit of playing practical jokes. Pretty much every fellow sister had been the butt of one really good one by my senior year, and I guess they decided it was payback time. They got me back so thoroughly fiendishly, in fact, that it was years before I ever even considered playing another practical joke.
When I came to, I was no longer on the couch. In an elaborate and bizarre twist of events, I awoke affixed to a door leading from the party room to a back service hallway. They’d actually cut five holes in the door through which all of my appendages-feet, hands and head-were protruding. On each of my wrists and ankles they attached thick, padded leather cuffs with metal studs protruding, preventing me from pulling my hands or feet back through the small holes. A similar cuff was placed around my neck on both sides of the door, preventing my head from slipping out either. The holes for my feet were about three feet off the floor, the holes for my wrists slightly higher than the one for my head which was about two-thirds from the top of the door. My butt rested on a bar stool so that my body formed a slight “C” with the ends protruding through one side, the rest on the other side. Furthermore, my shoes and nylons had been removed and from the cold draft I felt on my stomach and the backs of my legs, pretty much all of the rest of my clothing had been removed. The only thing I knew for sure I still had on was my bra and underwear, although I would soon come to find that to be of little protection for my terribly exposed and vulnerable body.
While waking to find myself in modern day stocks was startling enough, what really scared the shit out of me was what had been painted on the door. The wall of the party room opposite me was covered in large mirrors offering an ample view of my precarious situation. And what I quickly noticed was that the door had been covered in brown paper and graffitied with markers. In large, bold letters at the top, “It’s Wendy’s Turn to Play the Fool” was written with “She Who Laughs Last Laughs HARDEST!” written below my head. And between my bare feet they’d written “Please Tickle Us!” in large purple letters.
I gulped hard and could feel sweat begin to form under the cuff around my neck. They had truly found my greatest weakness and were planning to fully exploit it. You see, I am agonizingly ticklish! A lone feather scares me about as much as a loaded gun. My heart began pounding so loudly, my head pulsed. “Shit, these bitches are crazy! I’ve got to get loose, somehow,” I yelled silently to myself. But of course, no matter how hard I yanked, my feet and ankles were helplessly stuck.
I stared helplessly at the sight before me, a feeling of resignation sweeping over me. They were thorough in their graffiti, providing recommendations (“Don’t Forget to Brush Between Her Toes”), remembrances of purpose (“This Will Teach Her to Play Practical Jokes!”) and even templates (a big bull's-eye drawn in the center of one foot, a blank tic-tac-toe board on the other). And worse, they’d tacked instruments on strings to aid the lynch mob in their attack (a feather, razor point felt tip, small paint brush and tooth brush). I gulped imagining those bristles scraping up and down my poor soles.
My self pity was interrupted by the sound of someone coming down the stairs. My heart began to race wondering if the entire fraternity was about to spring to action. At first I was relieved to see my boyfriend, Jake, a rugby player. “Shit, get me out of here, honey” I pleaded anxiously, hoping he’d bail me out and save me from certain hell.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” he asked incredulously. Walking up to me and surveying the completely ludicrous predicament I was in, he launched into a rather hideous, gutful of laughter at my predicament. It was at that very moment, as his deep throated laughter rang in my ears, that it suddenly hit me that he was probably the only one who knew how truly ticklish I was, learned from hapless games of wrestling when we were drunk and fooling around. During some of those matches, I was barefoot and he quickly seized the opportunity winning virtually every time as I was incapacitated from the intense sensations I experience whenever someone tickles my feet.
“Jake!” I barked, in a commanding voice meant to snap him to reality and know I meant business and wasn’t going to be taken advantage of. But there was an unforgettable glint in his eye, a certain mischievous smile forming on his face that made my heart sink. “Please?” I whimpered, my voice changing to one of pleading for decency from my captor.
“Gee, sweetheart,” he mocked insincerely, “you seem to be in quite a...er, um...TICKLISH...situation here...” With that I knew it was all over. His hand reached down toward my bare foot just waiting for him.
“Oh come on!” I cried out in desperation, bouncing on the stool to try to wrench my feet to freedom. “Shit, don’t do this...please! You know how ticklish I am!”
I was suddenly reminded of an old Flintstone episode where Fred was arguing with his neighbor over the location of a fence when the neighbor picked the fence up and slammed it down on Fred’s ankles. Naturally, it was made of stone and trapped his always-bare feet on the neighbor’s side. At first, Fred was real pissed, yelling at the neighbor. But then, in a truly stupid move, he paused when he realized just how vulnerable he was (turns out Fred is quite ticklish like me!). Then he asked the neighbor sheepishly “Gee, you wouldn’t tickle my feet, would you?” Well, that was all the encouragement his fiendish neighbor needed and the next thing Fred knew, finger nails were dancing up and down Fred’s sensitive feet, while he laughed wildly and yanked until he freed his feet.
Suddenly I felt as stupid as Fred, suggesting a torture I feared more than anything. And unfortunately, I didn’t have Fred’s Neanderthal strength to release my feet. (Why couldn’t I have blurted out “don’t force feed me chocolate!” or some other more bearable torture?)
“Yeah, I know,” Ted cajoled, “that’s why I suggested it!” I didn’t have time to think about the fact that my boyfriend just admitted this whole thing was his idea, because his finger nails made contact with my ultra sensitive foot and I lost it, crying out with laughter and yanking on my ankles trying desperately to free my tortured soles. I couldn’t believe it when, just like Fred Flintstone’s goon neighbor did to him, Ted punctuated his blow by taunting me with a “kitchy, kitchy, koo!” He seemed to delight in my misery, his finger nails dancing merrily up and down my sole while I blubbered what profanities I could manage between laughs. Once his other hand joined the action with my other foot, I really lost it laughing louder and harder than I’d ever laughed in my life.
Which only served to alert the others in the house that the fun was in the basement! The next thing I knew I was facing a dozen sorority sisters smiling as they watched Ted reduce me to a giggling, ranting, begging idiot. And thus began the most intense, unbelievably unbearable evening I’ve ever endured. You have no idea how ticklish you are until you’re subjected to hours of relentless, uncontrolled exploration of your most sensitive and vulnerable body parts by about twenty drunk college kids all while completely helpless to stop or even minimize their assault.
More than 200 fingers scraped, poked, danced, scratched and stroked my poor soles. The feather and brushes proved quite effective in drawing a reaction from me as well, their barbs gliding endlessly up, down and around my bare feet, no single centimeter of skin escaping unscathed. I had never had the displeasure of being tickled with a feather in the cracks and crevices between my toes until that night, but many party guests found my reaction to it most delightful. Throughout the night, there were numerous games of tic-tac-toe played with the razor point pin on the board drawn on my sole-I don't know which were worse, X’s or O’s! And when the board was written on until unplayable, some clever sole would retrieve some warm water and soap, scrubbing my foot clean (a couple of times with the toothbrush!) and then redrawing the board on my warmed and softened foot.
I’ve never cried as much as I did that night, driven to tears by their endless, merciless attacks upon my poor body. It didn’t take someone long to figure out that if I am so ticklish on my feet, then the rest of my body would probably be quite sensitive as well (they were right!). I about jumped out of my skin when my ribs were suddenly, unexpectedly attacked by a pair of hands poking and squeezing them. Someone had trekked through the back hall and discovered my completely unprotected torso practically begging for punishment. I soon deduced it was one of my sisters based on the intense sensations I felt from long and sharp finger nails scraping all over my skin. She was ruthless, thoroughly exploring and discovering every darned ticklish spot I had. My stomach, ribs, armpits, arms, neck, even my nipples and back became sensitized to her every touch.
I giggled and laughed uncontrollably helpless to stop her torment. Unfortunately, everyone had taken momentary break from tickling my feet and it didn’t take them long to realize something was amiss-after all, I was giggling and laughing hysterically yet no one was even touching me! Soon, several more had joined the mystery woman behind me, all of them joining together to torture my torso. Meanwhile, the rest of the group had resumed their assault on my poor, helpless feet. It was absolutely the most intense, unbearable, frustrating moments of my life.
