I went to the movies yesterday, and as soon as the lights dimmed, I did the same thing I always do, which is to slide my sneakered feet between the seat in front of me, one on each side. Then, I imagined…
I imagined being alone in the theater. Well, not entirely alone.
I imagined two ticklers, one for each foot, sitting in the row in front of me.
I imagined them grasping each of my ankles and pulling me forward. I slid down in my seat, my legs going even further between.
I imagined them easing off my sneakers, and then lightly tickling up and down my socked feet. I would try to fight the urge to laugh, but as always, it would never work, and the giggles would start to flow.
The ticklers would tease all over my feet, and then, with a silent nod, slowly begin peeling the socks off, exposing my bare soles and toes. I would whimper slightly, but offer no resistance.
I imagined them taking a firmer grip of my ankles and then beginning to tickle me with more earnest. They aren’t trying to hide their aims, they’re not sneaking in tickles as the previews play. They are out to make me suffer, regardless of how loudly that suffering will be.
I imagined flailing around in the seat, gripping the armrests to try to stay relatively still, only to thrash about some more as the ticklers found all my weakest points. My arches. The balls of my feet. And oh, god, when they started tickling my toes…
I imagined that each time I would be able to wrench a foot free, the tickling would stop by both ticklers, and they would wait for me to present myself back to them, and each time, I’d obey.
I imagined that as the feature presentation began, the tools would come out. From their pockets would be pulled small bottles of lotion, bits of string to wind between my ticklish toes, and oh god, the brushes. Brushes of every shape, all easily concealed, but ready to terrorize my soles.
I imagined squeaking in surprise each time a new tool was brought out.
I imagined sending out whispered pleas for mercy, asking for the slightest reprieve from my torment, knowing that would be all I would get.
And oh, I imagined laughing. Laughing until my sides ached, until my breath caught in my chest, until every fiber of my being thrummed with hysteria.
I imagined this lasting the entire movie.
I imagined the ticklers returning control of my feet to me as the credits rolled, both standing and leaving without a word.
I imagined collecting myself, putting my socks and shoes back on, and staggering, red faced and teary eyed, from the theater.
I imagined the puzzled looks on the faces of the people waiting for the next showing, not sure exactly how Wonder Woman could be such a tragic film.
I imagined.
I imagined being alone in the theater. Well, not entirely alone.
I imagined two ticklers, one for each foot, sitting in the row in front of me.
I imagined them grasping each of my ankles and pulling me forward. I slid down in my seat, my legs going even further between.
I imagined them easing off my sneakers, and then lightly tickling up and down my socked feet. I would try to fight the urge to laugh, but as always, it would never work, and the giggles would start to flow.
The ticklers would tease all over my feet, and then, with a silent nod, slowly begin peeling the socks off, exposing my bare soles and toes. I would whimper slightly, but offer no resistance.
I imagined them taking a firmer grip of my ankles and then beginning to tickle me with more earnest. They aren’t trying to hide their aims, they’re not sneaking in tickles as the previews play. They are out to make me suffer, regardless of how loudly that suffering will be.
I imagined flailing around in the seat, gripping the armrests to try to stay relatively still, only to thrash about some more as the ticklers found all my weakest points. My arches. The balls of my feet. And oh, god, when they started tickling my toes…
I imagined that each time I would be able to wrench a foot free, the tickling would stop by both ticklers, and they would wait for me to present myself back to them, and each time, I’d obey.
I imagined that as the feature presentation began, the tools would come out. From their pockets would be pulled small bottles of lotion, bits of string to wind between my ticklish toes, and oh god, the brushes. Brushes of every shape, all easily concealed, but ready to terrorize my soles.
I imagined squeaking in surprise each time a new tool was brought out.
I imagined sending out whispered pleas for mercy, asking for the slightest reprieve from my torment, knowing that would be all I would get.
And oh, I imagined laughing. Laughing until my sides ached, until my breath caught in my chest, until every fiber of my being thrummed with hysteria.
I imagined this lasting the entire movie.
I imagined the ticklers returning control of my feet to me as the credits rolled, both standing and leaving without a word.
I imagined collecting myself, putting my socks and shoes back on, and staggering, red faced and teary eyed, from the theater.
I imagined the puzzled looks on the faces of the people waiting for the next showing, not sure exactly how Wonder Woman could be such a tragic film.
I imagined.
