Naughty Boyfriends Get Tickled

"Come on babe, you'll like it once you're there!" Your girlfriend says, insistent on dragging you to do hot yoga.

Ordinarily something she would do alone, the class ends after sundown, the nearest parking spot two dark blocks away. Better to bring your boyfriend. With nothing better to do on a Thursday night, you reluctantly acquiesce, the two of you slipping on sports clothing and flip-flops as you step out into a humid Californian afternoon.

By the end of the hot yoga session you are a sweaty, loosy-goosy mess, but you would be lying if you said it didn't feel relaxing. The sun has gone down as you and your girlfriend step outside. The focus on your muscles and skin concentrates your senses into the tactile. You feel the drop in temperature as a cool wind brushes through the quiet, dark streets of a Los Angeles suburb. The sweat clinging to your skin starts to feel almost clammy as your flip-flops slide around on your soles.

"Did you like it babe?" Your girlfriend asks.

"It wasn't bad," you reply. The sight of her bare feet twisting, flexing, downright teasing you with their white-painted toes and wrinkly arches as she moved through the yoga poses was, y'know, not exactly a negative either. The compression shorts were a good idea, you realize in retrospect. Such flaunting deserves to be punished. You wonder if she already knows what plans you have brewing in your head for when you get home.

You are so caught up in your fantasies, however, you don't notice the white van that has slowed down to a crawl behind you two. Nor do you hear the van doors slide open. The only inkling you get that something might be amiss is the half-second of having a rag over your mouth before you slip into oblivion. Your last image is of your girlfriend looking... unperturbed.

An indeterminate gulf separates you in time and place from the moment of your drugging to waking up. When you do return to consciousness, what you find is not exactly comforting. You are in a plain-looking, unadorned room with off-white walls and no windows - so far so good. The real problem is your wrists are held high above you and pegged into a wooden frame so tightly even flexing your wrists feels like a lat pulldown. On top of that your ankles have been locked apart into two separate holes in what you immediately realize - as the filthy, perverted tickle fetishist that you are - is a well-built set of padded stocks. Even stranger still? Your girlfriend is nestled into the space between your spread legs, her own feet locked into the center holes of the stocks, toes pointed down, her brown eyes pointed up at yours, her delicate wrists cuffed together but not tied to anything. Her soft palms and manicured nails rest on your abs. You see something almost mischievous in her eyes for a split-second before she takes on a more worried expression.

Before the two of you can try to communicate through the cleave gags in your mouths, a woman pushes the door open. The tips of her nails clicking against the wooden frame. Your stomach flutters as the nails gently curl off the door. The woman has long black hair down to mid-back, cut short in an undercut on one side. Shiny leather corset and straps, silvery collar, high-heeled black boots (sadly, no peep-toe) tell you everything you need to know about this person. Well, not everything. Not why she has you and your girlfriend locked up barefoot in a set of stocks in her house. Or who the hell she is. As you start to yell at her and demand to know what's going on through your gag, she strides over and runs the backside of her charcoal-black nails down the side of your face as she shushes you.

"Shh, don't worry honey, I'll tell you everything. You see, your girlfriend here-" the dominatrix says, emphasizing this by running her nails up along the nape of your girlfriend's neck and through her hair. She shivers at the touch, "-she said she's been having problems with a mean, nasty boyfriend who just can't keep his tickle-happy fingers away from her adorable tootsies."

From your vantage point you can't quite see what the woman does next, but you can hazard a guess when her hands reach down towards the front of the stocks and a moment later your girlfriend lets out a breathy giggle and her squirming hips grind into you.

"So, she asked me to help her dish out some well-earned punishment to that naughty boyfriend of hers. Help give him a little..." Her hands move intentionally slowly, giving you time to build up to the top-of-the-roller-coaster sensation before she flutters her fingertips along your soft, slender soles. The effect is immediate as you buck and pull at the padded stocks. She tickles then stops then tickles again, timing her scribbling to begin the second your muscles unwind and come to rest. The woman's laugh is dark, raspy, and sadistic. After a minute of this she stops.

"But of course, when she told me all this, I decided she had to be punished too. After all, what kind of girlfriend hires a dominatrix to kidnap and tickle torture her boyfriend like that? To say nothing of the legal and ethical grey area of using anesthetics but hey," the dominatrix shrugs, "money can buy you anything in Los Angeles."

Still trying to make sense of the cocktail of emotions in your head, you are simultaneously relieved and also a little flattered that this is just setup for an elaborate albeit morally-dubious fetish session rather than a real kidnapping. On the other hand, you are about to be tickle tortured out of your mind, which has you somewhere between scared, excited, and incredibly fucking aroused. Your girlfriend, with her cuffed hands still pressed against your torso, at least has the decency to look guilty.

"Now, first things first," the Dominatrix says as she leaves the room to go bring back a bowl of water and some wicked-looking brushes. "I have two sweaty pairs of feet here that need to be scrubbed clean."

You shake your head and moan not to before she brings the brushes up and gets to work scrubbing your feet. It is at this point that you realize why your girlfriend's cuffed hands aren't attached to anything. Her manicured nails scramble themselves up and down your ribs, sides, and tummy, adding to the bristly, inescapable scrubbing going on down at your feet. Both women working on you at the same time has you screaming and laughing as your muscles bounce you around in your bindings by all of a few millimeters in any direction. The tickling from all ends builds up a cocktail of lust and sensual teasing that has no release other than frantic laughter and fruitless grinding against your similarly restrained girlfriend whose own ticklish scrubbing has her giggling and burying her face into your chest. In an ironic twist of fate, the air from her heavy breathing tickles your chest.

After a long time, the scrubbing finally stops and the woman wipes yours and your girlfriend's feet dry, prompting one last bout of giggling on both your parts.

"Well now," the woman says, glancing at a clock on the wall, "I was hired for an hour of tickle torture, so that means..."

Over your girlfriend's face still pressed to your chest, over the stocks, and past your two pairs of helplessly ticklish feet, the woman grins wickedly, "we've got another 55 minutes to go."