By TickleSteve
“Victory” flashed on the television screen as the Playstation game emitted a happy tune. “Aw, shit,” muttered Corry as he tossed his controller onto the stand holding the tv. “What do you want me to do?” he asked in a resigned voice.
Corry and I had been friends in high school, and we were both sophomores at the same college. After spending our freshman year in the dorms, we got an apartment together not far from campus. We hadn’t lived together long before we figured out neither of us liked household-type chores. We’re both very competitive, and it didn’t take long for us to come up with a game to determine who had to clean up the apartment. Every week Corry and I would take turns picking some game, and the loser had to clean up everything for that weekend. It was the only way we could make sure our apartment was clean enough to have friends over.
Over the last few weeks, I had an idea rolling around in the back of my head that I couldn’t resist. Winning the game today gave me the perfect opportunity.
“Hang on a second, Corry. I gotta get something before you get to work.” I walked to the hall closet and took out some clothesline from a bucket of random tools and junk. Returning to the living room, I told Corry to have a seat on the exercise bench we had in place of a dining table. He looked at me quizzically but moved over anyhow.
I grabbed his right arm and wrapped the clothesline around his wrist a couple of times before tying it off. As I reached for his left arm, Corry asked, “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”
“I just thought I’d add something new for the winner. Or maybe it’s for the loser, too.” With both wrists secured together, I pulled the rope over his head, causing Corry to raise his arms. I kept pulling, and he laid back on the bench with his arms straight out above his head. I tied the rope to the support leg of the bench and grabbed a cheap metal folding chair from the kitchen area. I tapped his knee with my hand as I walked past and motioned for his feet. I opened the chair and put his feet through the opening, letting them hang over the back a bit. A few quick loops of clothesline around each ankle left Corry’s feet secured to the chair.
As I stood up and glanced at Corry, I couldn’t believe how easy it had been to tie him up. That part of my plan had worried me the most, just behind making sure I won the game.
“I decided only playing to see who cleaned up around here was getting old and boring, so I wanted to toss out another option,” I explained matter-of-factly. “Starting today, losers can be required to submit to being tickled.”
“No fucking way, dude. There’s no way I’m going for that!” Corry pulled at the ropes holding his hands, but he was only able to twist his upper body somewhat. Pulling his feet just made the chair scrape on the ground.
As he was struggling to get out, I started poking at his ribs through his buttoned-up short-sleeve shirt. Corry twitched and momentarily stopped pulling at the ropes with each new touch. I started at the bottom of his ribs and by the time I was halfway up, Corry was grunting and breathing heavier. I continued methodically poking and rubbing each rib. As I made my way up, Corry’s grunting morphed into giggles which grew louder. When I finally reached his armpits, one touch told me I hit the jackpot. As soon as I brushed the skin just above his shirtsleeve, Corry was laughing so much he stopped pulling at the ropes.
“Aha ha ha ha… dude… stop!” Corry struggled in vain to put some words together. I just kept poking and scratching through his shirt.
I gave Corry a short break while my hands returned to the bottom of his shirt. I started undoing the buttons and poking the bare skin as it was exposed.
“Dude, no!” Corry pleaded with me. “I… can’t… stand… it.” He struggled to get the words out around his gales of laughter. Corry’s face turned red and tears formed in the corners of his eyes as my fingers found his bare armpits. He tried to pull his arms down to cover his sensitive skin, but he could only rock back and forth a little. It wasn’t long before Corry needed another break, and I had another idea. I had never acted on my tickling desire, although I was a regular reader of web sites devoted to the subject. I went back to the hall closet and rummaged through a box on the shelf. I was hoping to find a feather, but who keeps those kinds of things just lying around? I found what I figured was the next-best thing: paint brushes. I grabbed a large one, small one and a small rounded art brush. None of them had been used, so they were nice and soft.
Corry was catching his breath as I returned, and he looked at the brushes in my hands with a wide-eyed look of panic. “Those aren’t for me, are they?”
“No, I suddenly decided I would repaint the living room. Of course they’re for you, dumb ass!” I selected the large brush and made a show of stroking my palm with it slowly. Corry watched the brush move lower and lower. As the brush came closer to his stomach, Corry could only muster a weak, “Oh, shit, dude.”
As the bristles made contact with his belly button, Corry gasped and his stomach tightened up. He dropped his head back and let out laugh after laugh. I wiggled the brush back and forth across his abs, and Corry went berserk. He jumped when the brush hit his sides, and he yelled when I trailed it along the waistband of his shorts. I painted up one side and down the other, careful not to get his arm pits yet. After four or five “coats” I picked up the smaller brush and attacked his left arm pit. I’m not sure there’s a word to describe the kind of laughter that erupted from Corry as the bristles slid over his pit. One hand held the brush, and I reached over with my fingers to get the other pit. I switched the brush between his pits a few times, making sure both pits were always being tickled. Corry’s laughter soon stopped making as much sound, so I knew he needed another break.
My next stop put me at his feet, and I stroked his right sole and scratched with my fingernails from his heel up along his instep. I poked and prodded and found the spots above his heel and just below the ball of his foot that I had read about in other stories. Corry tried covering one foot with the other, but each time I would just change which foot I tickled, so he got no relief.
I picked up the large paint brush and stroked his left foot with it, and his laughter hit a new high. It was especially effective on his toes. He tried moving his feet and wriggling his toes to get away, but that only let the bristles reach farther between his toes. I changed to the small art brush and flicked it along his toes. Corry jumped, and I grabbed his big toe to hold it steady as I dusted his foot. He could do nothing more than scream and laugh as his entire foot took the punishment. Even the tops of his toes and around his ankle were sensitive to the brush.
I gave Corry another short break to catch his breath and returned to his feet again. After that, I turned back to his arm pits with the art brush, which brought about the same reaction as his feet. After a few minutes, Corry was clearly exhausted, and I took pity on my friend. I set the brush down and untied his feet and hands. Corry laid on the bench for a few more minutes before he could even attempt sitting up.
“Whaddya think?” I smirked. Corry’s chest heaved again as he said, “I think it’s best two out of three.”
We played again that afternoon, and tickle torture became a staple of our weekend competitions. We were always looking for new and sinister ways to create more tickle sensations for each other.”